ourgee's 


AMERICA 
RiSTORICAL  ROYELS 


•FORDS:HOWARfl*HUI.BERT" 


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Hot  Plowshares, 


A  NOVEL, 


ALBION  W.  TOURGEE, 


Author  or  "A  Fool's  Ekband,"  etc. 


New  York  : 
FORDS,  HOWARD,  &  HULBERT 

1883 


COPYRIGHT,  A.  D.,  1882, 

By  Albion  W.  TouROtE, 

Author. 


PREFACE. 


Fiction  is  the  handmaid  of  Truth.  Imagination  is 
almost  always  the  forerunner  of  fact.  History  gives  only 
the  outlines  of  the  world's  life.  It  tells  us  what  was 
done,  who  did  it,  when  and  where,  and,  in  a  general 
way,  the  reason  why  it  was  done.  It  traces  the  move- 
ments of  races,  nations  and  parties.  It  is  concei-ned 
chiefly  with  nouns  of  multitude,  taking  no  heed  of  the 
individual  save  when  he  becomes  connected  with  the 
general  result  in  the  relation  of  cause  and  effect.  Rulers 
and  leaders  are  noted  as  types  of  great  events ;  the 
man — the  human  atom — is  only  an  incident.  History 
tells  what  the  army  did,  and  gives  the  general  a  place  in 
its  pages  simply  because  he  commanded  the  army.  Of 
the  motives  that  inspire  the  rank  and  file  it  takes  as 
little  note  as  of  their  individual  acts. 

Biography  both  supplements  and  obscures  History — 
supplements  by  showing  the  relation  of  great  events  to  a 
particular  individual,  and  obscures  by  magnifying  his 
causative  relation  to  them.  If  we  accepted  the  verdict  of 
the  most  conscientious  biographer  as  veritable  truth, 
we  should  soon  be  hopelessly  astray.  Biography  covers 
the  whole  area  of  History  with  private  landmarks. 
Every  great  event  is  pre-empted  by  a  thousand  claim- 
ants, each  of  whom  asserts  his  individual  right  to  be 
considered  its  originator.  The  rivalry  of  the  dead  is 
even  worse  than  that  of  the  living.  Men  who  wrought 
and  fought  side  by  side  while  alive  against  some  common 
enemy,  are  no  sooner  dead  than  they  are  pitted  against 
each  other  in  a  never-ending  struggle  for  the  laurels  of 
the  victory  they  have  jointly  won. 

603280 


PREFACE. 

Fiction  labors  under  no  such  disadvantages.  It  fills 
out  the  outlines  History  gives,  and  colors  and  completes 
its  pictures.  It  shows  what  manner  of  men  they  were 
who  wrought  its  great  events.  It  vivifies  the  past  of 
which  History  only  furnishes  the  record. 

Twenty-two  years  ago  a  great  nation  was  broken  in 
twain  in  an  hour.  There  was  no  splintering  of  the  parts, 
no  strain,  no  lesion.  The  cleavage  was  sharp  and  smooth. 
The  day  before  there  was  no  sign  of  severance.  The 
day  after  there  was  no  trace  of  the  union  that  had  been. 
The  one  republic  became  two  withovit  a  ripple  in  the 
daily  life  or  relations  of  the  people.  Governors,  judges — 
all  officers,  state  and  federal — continued  to  perform  the 
same  duties  under  the  new  as  under  the  old  organization. 
The  two  hostile  powers  were  as  far  apart  as  if  they  had 
never  been  united.  Before  the  SAVord  was  drawn  the 
separation  was  as  complete  as  if  the  ocean  rolled  be- 
tween. Some  of  the  border  states  were  held  by  Northern 
power  and  occupancy.  They  were,  so  to  speak,  over- 
laid by  Northern  life.  The  soil  was  held,  but  their  life, 
their  sympathy  and  the  bulk  of  their  strength  went  with 
the  South,  of  which  they  were  a  part. 

What  made  this  sudden  severance  possible — not  only 
possible  but  inevitable  ?  It  was  not  ambition  nor  parti- 
san malice,  nor  the  lust  of  power.  It  was  because  the 
two  sections  had  grown  apart — had  leaned  steadily  away 
from  each  other,  farther  and  farther  every  year  for  a 
generation. 

The  separation  was  not  effected  by  any  act  of  secession 
or  declaration  of  independence.  That  was  but  the  sign 
of  the  fact.  The  mutually  repellent  forces  within  the 
respective  sections  had  completed  their  work.  The 
North  clung  together  because  it  was  homogeneous  in 
sentiment.  The  South  was  solid  for  the  same  reason. 
War  followed  naturally.  Which  was  right  and  which 
was  wrong,  abstractly,  is  of  little  moment  to-day.     That 


PREFACE. 

all  who  were  actors  in  that  mighty  drama  should  un- 
derstand and  appreciate  the  sentiments  and  motives  of 
those  who  stood  opposed  to  them  is,  at  least,  desirable. 
That  our  children  should  understand  that  the  great  cata- 
clysm was  sprung,  not  from  passion,  greed  or  ambition, 
but  was  based  upon  the  deepest  impulses  of  right  and 
honor,  is  essential  to  that  homogeneity  of  sentiment  on 
which  our  future  prosperity  and  happiness  so  much 
depend. 

We  are  accustomed  to  speak  of  "the  results  of  the 
war."  It  would  be.  more  logical  to  speak  of  the  results 
of  the  years  of  peace  that  preceded  war.  The  peculiar 
relations  that  still  prevail  between  certain  classes  at  the 
South  are  less  the  result  of  war  than  of  the  system  which 
was  overthrown  by  war.  There  are  many  problems 
which  the  past  has  left  unsolved.  Some  of  them  are  of  the 
gravest  possible  character.  Their  peaceful  solution  makes 
the  fullest  comprehension  of  the  pre-existing  influences 
and  developments  a  prime  necessity  on  the  part  of  all. 

Many  years  ago  the  author  conceived  the  idea  that  he 
might  aid  some  of  his  fellow-countrymen  and  country- 
women to  a  juster  comprehension  of  these  things  by  a 
series  of  works  which  should  give,  in  the  form  of  fictitious 
narrative,  the  effects  of  these  distinct  and  contrasted 
civilizations  upon  various  types  of  character  and  daring 
specific  periods  of  the  great  transition.  Beginning  their 
preparation  in  1867,  in  the  midst  of  the  fading  glare  of 
revolution,  on  the  very  spot  where  one  of  the  great  armies 
of  the  rebellion  surrendered,  he  has  worked  patiently 
and  honestly  and  zealously  to  complete  his  analyses  of 
the  representative  groups  of  character.  By  birth  and 
education  he  became  intuitively  familiar  with  Northern 
life.  Born  upon  the  Western  Reserve,  the  impressible 
years  of  boyhood  and  youth  were  almost  equally  divided 
between  the  East  and  the  West.  They  were  years  of 
fruitful  though  unconscious  observation.     From  the  close 


PREFACE. 

o\  the  war  until  1880  he  resided  continuous!)-  at  the 
South,  and  studied  with  the  utmost  care,  and  from  a 
standpoint  of  peculiar  advantage,  the  types  of  the  ex- 
piring and  the  coming  eras. 

The  present  volume  is  the  last  of  the  projected  series. 
It  is  designed  to  give  a  review  of  the  Anti-Slavery  strug- 
gle, by  tracing  its  growth  and  the  influence  of  the  senti- 
ment upon  contrasted  characters.  In  the  main,  it  does 
not  concern  itself  with  the  promoters  of  this  struggle. 
In  no  sense  does  the  work  profess  to  give  a  history  of 
the  movement,  but  onl}^  a  truthful  i^icture  of  the  life 
upon  which  it  acted,  of  the  growth  of  its  influence  and 
its  character  as  a  preparation  for  the  struggle  in  which 
those  whose  thought  had  been  moulded  by  its  sentiments 
were  destined  to  engage. 

The  period  covered  by  the  now  completed  series  of  six 
volumes  extends  from  twenty  years  before  the  war  until 
twelve  years  after  it.  By  the  public,  they  have  been  per- 
sistently designated  as  "historical  novels."  The  term  is 
true  only  in  that  they  have  been  endeavors  to  trace  the 
operation  of  sentiments  which  have  arisen  from,  and 
been  instrumental  in  producing,  historical  facts.  In  chro- 
nological order  they  would  stand  as  follows :  "  Hot  Plow- 
shares," "Figs  and  Thistles,"  "A  Eo3^al  Gentleman," 
"A  Fool's  Errand,"  "  Bricks  Without  Straw,"  "John 
Fax."  When  the  series  was  begun  the  author  had  little 
hope  that  it  would  be  completed.  Now  that  it  is  finished, 
he  is  almost  sorry  to  bid  adieu  to  a  subject  that  has  en- 
grossed the  better  portion  of  his  active  manhood.  It  is 
believed  that  it  constitutes  the  most  serious  attempt  ever 
made  to  portray  the  various  phases  of  a  climacteric  era,  by 
successive  pictures  of  the  various  forms  of  life  developed 
thereby.  For  the  favor  extended  to  the  preceding  vol- 
umes the  author  desires  to  render  renewed  thanks. 

A.  W.  T. 
Philadelphia,  May  2,  1883. 


CONTEI^TS. 


CHAPTER 

I.  The  Shadow  of  the  Storm, 
II.  President-Making, 

III.  "Arise,  Sir  Knight!" 

IV.  "For  Wounds,  Balm," 
V.  "A  Defeated  Joy," 

VI.  The  Clue  to  the  Labyrinth, 

VII.  Between  the  Pillars, 
VIII.  On  Guard,        .... 

IX.  Hargrove's  Quarter,    . 
X.  Merwyn  Hargrove, 

XL  "Gay  Castles  in  the  Clouds  th 
XIL  Partners,         .... 

XIII.  A  New  Day,    .... 

XIV.  The  End  op  the  Law,  . 
XV.  "For  the  Glory  of  God," 

XVL  Brackish  Waters, 
XVIIi  What  Waked  the  World,  . 
XVIII.  A  Weekly  Post,     . 
XIX.  A  Momentous  Question, 
XX.  "He  that  Is  to  Be,"    . 
XXL  A  Subterranean  Myth, 
XXII.  A  Free  Institution,     . 

XXIII.  For  the  Amendment  of  Divine 

XXIV.  By  an  Unpracticed  Hand, 
XXV.  A  Punic  Peace,     . 


AT  Pass, 


Error, 


PAGE 

7 

20 

31 

43 

63 

66 

75 

86 

95 

110 

125 

136 

158 

163 

176 

192 

215 

231 

246 

258 

278 

291 

297 

311 

319 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

XXVI.  The  Reconnoissance  in  Force,    . 
XXVII.  Not  Without  Honor,     .        .        .        . 
XXVIII.  Bridging  the  Chasm,     .        .        .        . 

XXIX.  A  Hard  Bargain, 

XXX.  A  Good  Investment,       .        .        .        . 

XXXI.  On  the  Divide, 

XXXII.  PossEssio  Pedis, 

XXXIII.  A  Nineteenth  Century  Buccaneer,  . 

XXXIV.  A  Change  of  Base,        .        .        .        . 
XXXV.  Blindfold  and  Barefoot,     . 

XXXVI.  Born  of  the  Spirit,       .        .        .        . 
XXXVII.  The  Freemasonry  of  the  Oppressed, 

XXXVIII.  Out  op  the  Toils, 

XXXIX.  The  Church  Militant,  .        .        .        . 
XL.  Cleansed  from  Blood-Guiltiness, 
XLI.  The  Proof  that  Healeth  Doubt, 
XLII.  The  Effect  of  a  Side  Light, 
XLIII.  That  Nothing  be  Lost, 
XLIV.  Facing  the  Ordeal, 
XLV.  A  Masked  Battery, 
XL VI.  Clamor  in  the  Home  Nest, 
XLVII.  A  Flickering  Lamp, 
XL VIII.  Bits  of  Gossip, 
XLIX,  The  Ha-h vesting,     . 


PAGE 

329 


349 
355 
370 
379 
397 
400 
413 
429 
446 
456 
469 
480 
502 
520 
535 
546 
563 
576 
583 
588 
598 
008 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Designed  by  A.  B.  Frost.    Engravings  by  O.  P.  Williams 
and  Edith  Cooper. 


PAGE 

1.  A  Fateful  Search, 

Frontispiece. 

3.  The  Eukaway,          .... 

.      43 

3.  The  Christening  of  Amity  Lake, 

.     109 

4.  Partners,         ...... 

.     156 

5.  The  Vindication  of  the  Law, 

.        .        .     288 

6.  At  Bay 

.        .        .    409 

HOT   PLOWSHARES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  SHADOW   OF   THE  STORM. 

It  was  the  fifth  day  of  November,  in  the  year  of 
Grace,  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  forty-eight.  A 
man  and  a  boy  were  husking  corn  in  a  liillside  field 
overlooking  the  valley  of  the  Mohawk,  a  valley  once  so 
celebrated  for  wealth  and  fertility  that  the  early  pioneers 
looked  upon  this  favorite  hunting-ground  of  the  Iro- 
quois as  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  a  farmer's  desires.  To 
be  of  the  Mohawk  valley,  even  during  the  present  cen- 
tury, was  to  occupy  the  most  enviable  of  agricultm-al 
locations.  Of  varied  soil,  pleasantly  undulated,  richly 
wooded — the  forest  giving  place  to  the  most  succulent 
herbage  which  grew  under  the  settler's  feet  whenever 
his  axe  let  in  the  sunlight — it  is  no  wonder  that  the 
Dutchman  cheated  Skenandoah  and  the  Yankee  looked 
with  covetous  eyes  from  the  rocky  hills  of  New  England 
upon  its  milk-and-honey  flowing  slopes.  Principahties 
were  carved  out  of  its  rich  acreage.  The  landmarks  of 
the  Livingstones,  the  Schuylers,  the  Van  Renssalaers, 
bounded  realms  worthy  of  a  Palatine.  Towns  and  cities 
grew  up  within  them.  Lesser  farms  filled  in  the  uneven 
jointure  of  their  boi-derings.  To  own  even  the  out- 
skirts of  the  valley  was  enough  to  make  the  possessor  en- 
vied.    The  first  Puritan  owner  of  the  tributary  valley  in 


8  HOT  PL  0  WSHARE8. 

which  the  field  of  which  we  have  spoken  was  situated, 
had  seized  a  precarious  foothold  between  the  duchies  of 
two  contending  families  and  gleefully  named  his  insecure 
possession  Paradise  Bay.  There  was  no  bay  at  all  and 
the  neighborhood  was  anything  but  paradisaical  to  the 
intruder.  He  was  in  the  valley,  however,  and  content, 
he  and  his  descendants,  thinking  there  was  nothing  more 
to  be  desired  until  the  wonder-working  To-day  rushed 
by  them,  lifted  the  gateways  of  the  West,  and  under  the 
setting  sun  revealed  marvels  which  dwarfed  with  daily 
facts  the  wildest  fancies  of  the  Orient. 

The  time  of  which  we  write  was  near  the  waking 
from  a  long  slumber.  The  canal  which  stretches  from 
lake  to  river  was  stih  the  main  avenue  of  transit  east- 
ward and  westward  through  the  Empire  State.  Beyond 
that  the  steamer  and  the  stage-coach  held  sway.  The 
grosser  products  of  the  West  consumed  themselves  before 
they  reached  the  Eastern  market.  The  cattle  and  swine 
stretched  away  in  endless  droves  across  the  States  lying 
eastward  of  the  Mississippi.  The  sustentation  of  these 
while  on  the  way  to  the  Eastern  market  enriched  the 
farmers  along  the  route  more  than  those  who  reared 
and  drove.  Cheese  sold  at  the  ports  of  Lake  Erie  then 
at  three  cents  a  pound.  That  very  year  tens  of  thou- 
sands of  fat  sheep  were  slaughtered  in  Ohio  for  the 
hides  and  tallow — only  the  hams  and  tongues  being 
saved  for  food.  The  West  was  open ;  was  known  to  be 
full  of  possibilities.  It  teemed  with  food  but  yet  was 
poor.  The  East  was  at  its  zenith.  Every  industry  was 
quick.  Labor  was  in  abundance  and  yet  in  demand. 
Wages  were  low  and  so  Avere  supplies.  There  were  few 
centres  of  population  and  still  fewer  unoccupied  arable 
regions.  Life  and  labor  were  evenly  spread  over  the 
whole  country.  The  land  was  a  bursting  hive — a  maga-  ^0m 
zine  of  possibility. 

We  were  still  a  nation  of  hand- workers.    There  was  not 


m 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  STORM.  9 

a  mower  or  harvester  then  in  existence.     No  house  con- 
tained a  sewnig-machine.     The  telegraph  had  be^un  at 

^:^^rTr^   '-^'f.  ^*  ^^-  York'twelve   Tntl 
befoie.  The  land  was  lighted  with  candles  after  nightfall. 
The  spmmng-wheel  and  shuttle  sovmded  in  every  farmer'^ 
house.     Butter  was  unmarketable  a  hundred  milesZm 
the  dairy       The  steam  saw-mill  had  just  begun  to  T 

of  a  hfe ;  from  North  to  South  a  voyage  of  discovery.  ^ 
The  migratory  fever  that  New  England  breeds  made 
he  valley  ^.e  great  highway  of  the  s'ekers  for  thesun- 
set.     The  Yankee  overran  the  Dutchman,  and  the  crreat 

West.    The  Dutchman  became  first  an  innkeeper  then 

iTtt  e  oft  n  ^""f  ''^  "'  ^"^^^-^^^^  ''''  *h^t  knows 

lordlv  Inn       '^'''  '^'''  ^''''    ^""^  ^''^'  ^^t^tes.  the 

lordly  landowners,  remained,  but  the  towns  and  villages 
and  the  hillside  farms  were  stamped  with  the  impress  of 
Kew  England  hfe.     It  was  a  sort  of  half-way  house 

tiof'^ThV'^''''  '""f '  '"'  ^'^'^^'y^  here  was 'frui- 
tion. The  rich  were  lavish  in  an  abundance  which  was 
not  yet  coveted  by  the  keen  eye  of  commerce.  tL 
poor  had  enoiigh,  and  in  the  comforts  of  life  were  almost 

sat  Xh"  h  '"'  ;"'•  ^""^  '''''  ''  -  "— ^^  ac^e 
sat  with  his  harvesters  at  dinner.  He  who  counted  his 
possessions  by  the  square  mile  kept  open  house  foi  the 
wayfarer.  The  epoch  of  haste  had  not  come.  The  si 
rose  qmetly  and  set  at  leisure.  A  day's  journey  was  a 
TZr7^.  The  canvas-covered  w'agon  was^hl^l-k 
ot  trade.     The  saddle  was  the  emblem  of  speed      Men 

and  not  with  the  train's  arrival.  The  turnpike  was 
still  the  great  artery  of  trade.  The  highways  were 
dusty  and  populous.     There  was  time  to  five.     BrlZ 


10  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

and  brain  went  hand  in  hand.  Every  hfe  touched  na- 
ture. Like  Anteus  we  felt  the  earth  beneath  our  feet 
and  were  stronc;.  We  had  vanquished  Nature  and  sat 
by  the  Indus  of  Time  weeping  for  other  worlds  to  con- 
quer. 

It  was  not  long  to  continue  thus.  Already  the  foot- 
steps of  the  prince  were  at  the  portals  of  the  silent 
palace.  The  age  of  miracles  was  about  to  dawn.  With- 
in a  year  the  gold  of  California;  within  a  decade  the 
railroad,  the  telegraph,  the  mower,  the  thresher,  the 
sewing-machine,  petroleum,  gas — ah!  so  many  won- 
ders that  they  that  wrought  before  forgot  their  cun- 
ning and  learned  anew  to  guide  rather  than  do,  to  stand 
by  and  direct  the  goblins  whom  science  had  evoked 
from  earth  and  air  and  sea  to  do  their  bidding. 

The  man  and  the  boy  still  wrought  together  in  the 
field.  The  corn  stood  in  serried  shocks  between  the  rows 
from  which  it  had  been  cut.  The  outer,  weather-beaten 
leaves  flapped  brokenly  in  the  wind.  Here  and  there  a 
yellow  ear  peeped  out.  The  close-bound  top  and  the 
wide-spread  base  made  an  extempore  rick  that  promised 
a  sturdy  defense  of  the  treasures  which  it  held,  even 
against  winter  storms.  But  the  farmer  had  no  idea  of 
trusting  his  crop  to  this  protection.  To  husk  and  house 
it  properly  was  the  greater  part  of  his  "fall  work,"  as 
it  was  called.  It  was  hardly  past  the  period  of  the 
Indian  summer  yet,  though  the  maples  M^ere  almost 
bare ;  the  birches  showed  their  white  arms  on  the  hill- 
side ;  the  beeches  had  grown  brown,  and  the  seared 
leaves  were  whirling  in  weird  dances  down  the  hollows. 

One  of  the  shocks  of  maize  ("stooks"  they  were  called 
upon  the  Mohawk)  had  been  thrown  down  and  the  band 
that  confined  the  top  loosened.  Upon  one  side  of  this 
knelt  the  man ;  upon  the  other  sat  the  boy.  Each  held  in 
his  right  hand  a  sharp  skewer  of  buckhorn  which  was 
fastened  by  a  leather  thong  about  his  middle  finger.   With 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  STORM.  11 

the  left  hand  he  drew  toward  him  the  dry  rustling 
stalks,  quickly  seized  the  ear  and  thrusting  the  buck- 
horn  "husking-pin,"  as  it  is  called,  through  the  dry 
shuck,  stripped  down  the  husk,  first  upon  one  side,  then 
upon  the  other ;  and  then  breaking  off  the  ear  with  a 
quick  jerk  threw  it  upon  the  golden  pile  which  lay  where 
the  shock  had  stood.  As  the  stalks  collected,  each  busker 
put  them  beneath  his  knees  and  so  advanced  toward 
the  other  through  the  rifled  shock. 

The  man  was  in  the  prime  of  Hfe,  smooth-shaven  as 
was  the  custom  of  the  time,  strong,  heavy-browed,  with 
a  prominent  sharply  cut  nose  and  a  mouth  whose 
mobile  under  lip  and  flexible  corners  showed  a  mental 
activity  clearly  indicated  also  by  the  rapidity  and  cer- 
tainty of  his  physical  movements.  He  was  clad  in  a 
blue  frock  with  overalls  of  the  same  material,  and  wore 
also  a  sort  of  leather  garment  like  a  smith's  apron,  ex- 
cept that  it  was  cut  open  below  and  strapped  about  each 
leg.  His  black  felt  hat,  straight-brimmed  in  front  and 
shghtly  upturned  behind,  showed  marks  of  use  but  still 
more  evident  marks  of  thrift  and  respectability. 

The  frock  open  at  the  throat  revealed  a  bit  of  white 
linen  and  a  black  silk  tie,  somewhat  out  of  keeping  with 
the  rough  outer  habiUments  but  thoroughly  in  harmony 
with  the  strong,  earnest  face  above.  His  hands  were 
broad  and  strong  but  deft  and  supple.  His  eyes  rested 
intently  upon  his  work,  but  the  movement  of  his  lip 
and  the  quick  humorous  flash  of  his  eye  showed  that  his 
thought  was  busy  elsewhere  and  that  the  quick  play  of 
his  hands  was  half  unconscious.  It  needed  but  a  glance 
to  tell  that  this  man  was  of  that  class  unmatched  in  any 
other  land,  the  American  Farmer— Gentleman  and  La- 
borer in  one— Servant  and  King.  This  man,  husking 
maize  upon  the  hillside,  might  sway  a  senate  or  lead  an 
army  as  easily  as  he  fought  the  battle  of  life  with  na- 
ture.     He  was  a  good  type  of  that  democracy  which 


12  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

always  surprises  the  world  when  the  strain  is  put  upon 
it.  Unconscious  of  any  rank  above  himself  and  compas- 
sionate of  any  that  may  be  below,  he  seems  born  to 
self-rehancc  and  success.  Content  to  do  w^hat  he  finds 
to  be  done,  respectful  of  himself  and  mindful  of  the 
rights  of  others,  his  real  power  is  unknown  even  to  him- 
self until  occasion  places  some  new  burden  on  his  shoul- 
ders and  then  the  world  Avonders  that  it  has  found  an 
Ajax.  He  is  the  Cromwell  who  comes  from  the  fens 
to  grasp  the  "fool's  bauble"  from  the  hands  of  weak- 
lings. 

The  boy  was  a  type,  as  well  as  the  father.  His  dozen 
years  might  have  been  more  or  less,  so  far  as  one  could 
judge  from  appearances.  Small,  weazened  in  look  and 
feature,  and  of  the  sallow  dullness  of  complexion  so 
often  found  in  the  American  farmer-bo}^  his  counte- 
nance was  redeemed  from  the  commonplace  by  the  keen 
blue  eye  and  the  full  red  lips  wiiich,  even  when  puck- 
ered into  a  whistle,  showed  character  and  life.  Instead 
of  kneeling  by  the  shock,  the  boy  had  rolled  one  of  the 
many  big  yellow  pumpkins  which  were  scattered  over 
the  field,  to  his  side  of  the  shock  of  corn,  and  sat  upon  it 
with  his  legs  stretched  out  contentedly  under  the  stalks. 
He  worked  neither  with  the  energy  displayed  by  his 
father — for  the  relation  Avas  manifest — nor  with  the  list- 
lessness  of  the  hireling.  Sometimes  he  husked  ear  for 
ear  with  his  father ;  then  he  would  sit  and  watch  him 
dreamily  or  dawdle  with  some  peculiarity  of  the  ear  his 
hands  laid  bare.  More  than  once  he  amused  himself 
by  throwing  bits  of  stone  or  nubbins  of  corn  at  a  small 
dog,  a  long-haired  mongrel  with  bright  eyes,  whose 
fleecy  coat  had  become  matted  with  cockle-burs  and 
Spanish-needles  vmtil  it  was  hard  to  say  Avhat  might  have 
been  its  original  color.  The  dog  had  dug  for  moles  in 
the  cornfield,  yelped  after  rabbits  in  the  alders  that  grew 
gilong  a  little  brook  that  intersected  it,  barked  at  gray 


The  shadow  of  the  storm.  n 

squirrels  in  the  wood  above  and  now  sat  beside  the  heap 
of  slender  twelve-rowed  ears  of  yellow  flint  (to  which 
the  father  added  an  ear  with  eveiy  second  almost  with 
the  regularity  of  a  pendulum  stroke),  with  his  tongue 
out  and  his  muddy  nose  pointed  toward  the  house  be- 
low, as  if  suggesting  that  his  day's  work  was  done,  and 
done  to  his  own  satisfaction. 

It  was  getting  toward  nightfall.  A  wind  had  sprung 
up  from  the  northwest.  The  sky  grew  dark  and  leaden. 
The  boy  began  to  shiver.  The  horses  which  had  been 
quietly  hitched  to  the  wagon  at  some  distance  feeding 
out  of  the  box,  began  to  whinny  and  grow  restless.  All 
at  once  the  man  seemed  to  waken  from  his  preoccupa- 
tion. His  hands  lagged  at  their  work  as  he  glanced  up 
at  the  sky  and  noted  the  signs  of  the  m^  eather  with  a 
quick,  shrewd  intelligence. 

"Hello,  Martin,"  said  he,  "what's  this?  Tow  if  it 
don't  look  as  though  'twas  going  to  snow.  If  it  was 
two  weeks  later  I  should  think  we  were  going  to  have 
an  old  rouser  from  the  nor'west.  It's  getting  cold,  too. 
Makes  you  shiver,  does  it  ?" — noticing  the  boy's  quiver- 
ing chin.  "Well,  I  don't  wonder.  Let  me  see,"  he 
continued,  drawing  a  large  silver  watch  from  beneath 
his  jacket  and  consulting  its  face,  "I  wanted  to  finish 
this  row  of  stocks,  but  it's  now  four  o'clock,  and  to- 
morrow is  'lection  day.  We'll  do  this  one,  pick  up  the 
corn  and  quit  work  for  to-day.  Come  on,  let's  have  it 
done  with  in  a  hurry." 

The  boy  who  had  listened  with  evident  pleasure  to  this 
conclusion  added  a  few  ears  to  the  pile  with  unusual 
alacrity  and  then  began  to  scrutinize  the  sky  himself. 

"Father?" 

"Yes?" 

"  What  made  you  say  you  thought  it  would  snow  ?" 

"  Looks  like  it  " — not  raising  his  eyes  nor  intermitting 
his  work. 


14  HOT  PLOWStlAiiES. 

The  son  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he  said  hesi- 
tatingly ' 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  know." 

"Why  there,"  said  the  father  stretching  his  arm  to- 
ward the  north,  "  oif  there  in  the  northwest,  where  the 
wind  comes  from,  don't  you  see  that  dull  heavy  bank  of 
clouds  ?" 

<■ '  Yes '  '—doubtfully.     ' '  Is  that  snoAv  ? ' ' 

"Well,  it  may  be.  If  it  hadn't  been  such  a  mild 
season  or  was  a  little  later  I  should  say  it  was.  Besides  if 
you  look  across  the  valley  you  can  just  see  the  steeple  at 
Rockboro.  In  good  weather  you  can  see  the  whole 
town  though  it  is  most  ten  miles  away.  That  is  sure 
to  mean  a  storm  and  a  big  one  too." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  except  the  rustling 
of  the  cornstalks.     Then  the  son  : 

"Father?" 

"Yes?" 

"  If  it  storms  very  bad  will  they  hold  the  'lection  just 
the  same  ?" 

"Just  the  same.  It's  one  of  the  things  that's  never 
put  off  for  the  weather,  my  son,  though  I  'spect  it 
makes  some  difference  in  the  result.  At  least  they 
always  claim  it  does." 

"What  difference?" 

"Well,  fair  weather  may  be  better  for  one  party  and 
bad  weather  better  for  another." 

"  How  many  parties  are  there,  father  ?" 

" Three— Democrats  and  Whigs  and  Barnburners." 

"  What  do  they  mean  hy  '  Barnbui'ners,'  father  ?" 

"That's  the  new  party.  Barnburners  is  a  nickname 
that's  given  them.  They  call  themselves  the  Liberty 
party  and  Free  Soil  party.  Other  folks  call  them  Abo 
litionists,  sometimes." 

"  You're  a  Whig,  ain't  you  father  ?" 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  STOBM.  15 

"Well,  yes,  I  s'pose  so;"  (musingly,)  "I've  always 
voted  that  ticket  an'  s'pose  I  will  agin'." 

"Which  party  is  it  that's  for  General  Taylor  ?" 

"  That's  the  Whig  party." 

"I  hope  they'll  win,  anyhow." 

"You  do?"  glancing  at  him  with  an  amused  smile. 
"Why?" 

"  'Coz  he  fit  the  Mexicans  !" 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  roared  the  father  in  hearty  sonorous 
tones,  which  echoed  over  the  valley  with  singular  clear- 
ness owing  to  proximity  of  the  coming  storm.  The 
boy's  face  flushed. 

"What  makes  you  laugh  ?  Ain't  that  a  good  reason  ?" 

"Good  or  bad,"  said  the  father,  still  laughing,  "it's 
the  only  one  anybody  has  yet  been  able  to  give.  So  I 
s'pose  it  Avill  have  to  do." 

They  finished  the  shock  as  he  spoke,  and  as  he  rose 
he  showed  himself  a  man  of  powerful  frame.  He  glanced 
at  the  clouds  again  and  said  : 

"Get  the  baskets,  Martie,  while  I  bind  up  these 
stalks  and  we  will  be  out  of  this  in  a  jiffy." 

The  boy  ran  for  the  baskets— great  bushel  measures— 
and  came  back  warmed  by  the  exercise.  The  corn  was 
piled  in  one,  shaken  down  and  heaped  up,  and  the 
father,  perching  it  lightly  upon  his  shoulder,  carried  it 
to  the  wagon,  a  few  rods  away,  while  the  son  filled  the 
other.  The  afternoon's  husking  was  soon  loaded,  and 
they  drove  away  to  the  house  and  in  upon  the  threshing 
floor  of  the  great  red  barn  that  flanked  the  house  upon 
the  hillside  below.  As  they  were  unharnessing  the 
horses  the  boy  asked,  in  a  tone  that  showed  his  doubt 
as  to  a  favorable  answer : 

"Father,  may  I  go  to  the  'lection  to-morrow  ?" 

"Go  to  'lection?  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  the 
father,  thoughtfully,  as  he  rubbed  the  horse  he  had  un- 


16  nOT  PLOWSHARES. 

harnessed  with  a  handful  of  straw,  "What  do  3'ou 
want  to  go  for  ?" 

"Just  to  see  how  it's  done,  sir." 

•'How  what  is  done?"  asked  the  father,  looking  at 
him  thoughtfully. 

"How  a  President's  made,  I  s'pose." 

"  HoAv  a  President's  made,  eh?"  with  a  twinkle  in 
his  deep  gray  eyes.  "  That's  not  so  bad,  Martin.  That's 
about  all  the  makin'  they  get.  Yes,  you  may  go  and 
see  how  a  President's  made  and  who  makes  him,  and 
all  about  it  that  you  can  learn  by  looking  on  and  listen- 
ing. But  remember,  my  son,  that  you  must  not  ask 
questions  nor  get  in  the  way,  nor  be  any  trouble  to  any 
one.  I  shall  most  likely  be  busy  countin'  the  votes,  and 
you  must  come  home  in  good  time  to  do  the  chores." 

"I  will,  sir,"  was  the  glad  reply. 

Martin  Kortright  dreamed  all  night  of  the  mystery  of 
mysteries  which  he  was  to  unravel  on  the  morrow. 

The  boy  had  been  in  bed  an  hour.  The  clock  struck 
nine.  The  farmer  put  away  his  newspaper ;  his  wife 
laid  aside  her  knitting  and  brought  the  Bible  and  laid  it 
on  the  table  before  her  husband.  He  read  a  chapter, 
gravely  and  solemnly  but  in  tones  that  echoed  through 
the  silent  house  thrilling  with  the  tremor  of  a  strong 
man's  earnestness.  Then  the  husband  and  wife  knelt  in 
prayer.  Her  head  was  bowed  upon  the  low,  cushioned 
rocker  on  which  she  had  been  sitting,  while  his  hands 
grasped  the  heavy  wooden  "Windsor"  chair  he  had 
occupied,  and  his  strong  face  showed  over  its  back 
as  he  prayed.  Harrison  Kortright  was  a  positive  man 
in  all  things,  but  in  his  religion,  especially  so.  If  he  had 
ever  been  troubled  with  doubt,  it  had  long  since  been 
exorcised.  That  he  meant  to  walk  with  God  no  one 
could  doubt  who  looked  at  him.  He  was  not  soft  and 
loving  and  sweet  of  temper,  but  he  was  in  earnest  and 
would  have  fought  for  his  faith  or  died  for  it  Avithout  a 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  STORM.  17 

murmur;  though  he  would  have  much  preferred  the 
fighting  to  the  dying.  His  earnestness  somewhat  im- 
paired what  we  are  accustomed  to  term  reverence.  The 
God  he  worshiped  was  an  approachable,  every -day 
being.  In  his  prayers  he  spoke  to  this  Omnipotent  face 
to  face,  and  was  quite  unabashed  by  the  fact.  He  was 
not  ashamed  to  come  before  the  throne  of  the  Eternal, 
for  he  felt  that  he  came  by  virtue  of  a  divine  right.  The 
God  to  whom  his  family  altar  had  been  builded  was  the 
One,  Almighty,  Invisible  Eternal ;  but  then  he  had  been 
bidden  to  come  before  him  with  boldness  and  he  came 
in  simple  obedience  to  that  command,  and  poured  out 
the  desires  of  an  earnest,  honest  heart.  Outside,  the 
snow  fell  upon  the  window-ledge,  silent  and  soft.  The 
great  flakes  came  noiselessly  against  the  pane.  The 
heaps  grew  higher  and  higher  upon  the  sash.  The  voice 
of  the  worshiper  M-ent  beyond  the  walls — out  into  the 
snowy  night  which  muffled  its  tones  to  a  soft  murmur. 
The  candlelight  shone  upon  the  white  flocculence  and 
made  a  golden  pathway  upward  from  the  window-seat 
toward  the  sky.  As  he  prayed,  a  face  looked  in  at  the 
window — gave  a  quick  startled  look — then  another,  a 
close  keen  glance— at  the  bowed  woman's  head  and  the 
man's  face,  calm  and  strong.  The  snow  fell  between  the 
watcher  and  the  window,  but  the  light  showed  that 
it  was  a  woman's  face.  The  prayer  ended,  and  the 
face  disappeared.  The  worshipers  arose.  The  woman 
passed  her  hands  over  her  hair  smoothing  it  down 
toward  the  temples.  She  began  to  put  back  the  chairs 
against  the  wall.  The  man  put  the  Bible  he  had 
read  upon  the  mantel  near  the  stove  and  passed  out 
into  the  hall.  The  whirrmg  of  wheels  was  heard  as  he 
wound  the  old  Dutch  clock.  It  was  the  last  of  the  day's 
duties.  When  this  was  done  he  would  cross  the  hall 
into  his  bed-room.  His  wife  had  taken  up  the  candle  to 
follow  him  when  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.     She 


18  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

started,  then  stopped  and  listened,  as  though  uncertain. 
She  thought  she  heard  a  movement  on  the  porch.  There 
was  another  knock. 

"What — who's  there?"  she  asked,  in  startled  ac- 
cents. 

The  question  was  not  ansAvered.  The  door  opened  and 
a  woman  entered.  The  two  gazed  at  each  other  a  mo- 
ment and  then,  as  though  there  had  been  a  mutual  recog- 
nition, the  farmer's  wife  approached  her  unseasonable 
visitant,  asked  a  question,  and  in  a  moment  more  the 
new-comer  was  sitting  by  the  stove  and  the  good  wife 
was  ministering  to  her  comfort. 

An  hour  later,  Harrison  Kortright  left  his  house  with 
the  stranger,  who  had  meantime  eaten  heartily,  snugly 
wrapped  up  beside  him  m  his  buggy,  while  his  wife  held 
the  flaming  candle  at  the  end  of  the  porch. 

"Don't  set  up  for  me,  Martha,"  he  called  as  the}'^ 
drove  away.  "I  shan't  be  back  afore  midnight,  any- 
how, and  like 's  not  it'll  be  later  'n  that." 

It  was  later,  for  the  clock  in  the  hall  had  struck  two 
before  his  step  sounded  again  on  the  porch,  and,  stamp- 
ing the  snow  from  his  feet,  he  entered  the  room  where 
his  wife  sat  awaiting  liini. 

"All  right,"  he  said  in  reply  to  a  look  of  inquiry; 
"  but  I've  had  a  hard  time — an  awful  hard  time.  The 
snow's  above  knee  deep  and  I  had  to  leave  the  buggy 
at  Smithson's  and  ride  home  horseback,  an'  without  a 
saddle,  too.  Even  in  that  way  it  was  hard  to  get  along. 
I've  had  to  walk  half  the  way,  for  fear  the  horse  would 
give  out.  As  good  luck  will  have  it,  it  ain't  very  cold  ; 
if 't  had  been  I  don't  know  how  I'd  ever  got  through. 

He  shook  oft'  the  snow  and  removed  his  hat  and  coat. 
His  wife  lifted  the  coflee-pot  from  the  stove,  and  set  it 
on  the  table  Avhere  she  had  already  spread  a  lunch. 
Then  she  approached  as  he  sat  tugging  at  his  soaked 
boots,  and  laying  her  hand  on  his  head  exclaimed  : 


THE  .SHADOW  OF  THE  BTOliM.  19 

"  "Why,  how  wet  your  hair  is  1" 

"Wet!  I  guess  if  you'd  seen  me  wading  through 
this  snow  and  towing  the  horse  after  me  for  five  miles, 
you  wouldn't  wonder.  I'm  just  as  wet  as  if  I'd  been  in 
the  river.  Don't  believe  I  ever  had  such  a  job.  If  it 
keeps  on  this  way  I  don't  know  how  anybody  '11  get  to 
'lection  to-morrow." 

"I  don't  think  it  makes  much  difference  whether 
they  do  or  not,"  said  the  Avife  briskly,  "  'Twixt  Whigs 
and  Democrats  and  Locofocos  and  Hunkers  and  Hards 
and  Softs,  and  what  not,  I  don't  see  much  difterence." 

The  husband  sat  gazing  intently  into  the  fire  a  mo- 
ment with  one  of  the  boots  he  had  just  laboriously 
drawn  off  still  in  his  hand,  before  he  answered  : 

"It  really  does  seem,  Martha,  as  if  the  Lord  was 
takin'  a  mighty  queer  way  to  establish  righteousness  in 
the  land,  but  I  guess  He'll  do  it.  Oh,  dear,"  he  ex- 
claimed, rising  from  his  chair  and  stretching  his  arms 
above  his  head,  "  I'm  too  tired  to  talk  about  it — I'm 
just  done  out." 

He  evidently  spoke  truly.  After  a  sup  or  two  of  cof- 
fee he  declared  that  he  could  eat  nothing — he  was  too 
tired.  And  almost  before  the  words  were  fairly  uttered, 
with  his  wife's  help  he  had  staggered  off  to  bed.  She 
returned  presently  and  hung  his  wet  clothes  by  the 
glowing  stove  and  then  herself  retired.  It  was  almost 
three  o'clock  when  silence  and  darkness  fell  upon  Para- 
dise Bay  that  night.  The  silent  flakes  were  still  falling 
without.  The  clouds  that  hung  above  the  valley  when 
the  sun  went  down  were  outspread  upon  the  earth  when 
it  arose.  The  clouds  that  hung  above  the  land  waited 
till  the  sun  of  a  generation  had  set  before  they  burst. 


CHAPTER  II. 

PRESIDENT-MAKING. 

The  morning  sliowed  that  the  promise  of  the  evening 
had  been  more  than  fulfilled.  Snow  had  fallen  dm-ing  the 
night  to  a  depth  almost  unprecedented  even  in  that  re- 
gion of  deep  snows.  There  had  been  no  wind,  and  the 
fleecy  coverlet  had  fallen  evenly  and  softly  upon  hill 
and  dale  alike.  It  was  as  though  the  earth  had 
been  blotted  out  by  magic,  and  a  white,  boundless 
sea  had  usurped  its  place.  Fences  and  walls  were 
hidden  from  sight.  The  roofs  were  laden  with  the  cling- 
ing mass.  The  trees,  still  bearing  half  their  foliage,  bent 
beneath  the  spotless  burden.  Highways  there  were 
none.  The  flocks  were  buried  from  sight.  The  cattle 
fought  their  way  Avith  difficulty  through  the  snow  to 
the  barns.  Two  feet  and  more  in  depth  it  lay  upon  the 
level,  soft  and  heavy  as  if  it  felt  ashamed  of  its  untimely 
coming  and  longed  to  melt  and  run  down  the  hills  and 
into  the  unfrozen  rivers,  and  flee  away  to  the  unfreezing 
sea.  The  sun  shone  bright ;  the  dogs  barked  ;  the  cattle 
lowed ;  the  cocks  croAved  incessantly  and  all  nature 
seemed  determined  to  regard  this  sudden  onslaught  of 
winter  as  a  jest.  But  for  the  mass  of  snow,  the  day 
would  have  been  a  balmy  one.  At  the  lowest  the 
thermometer  had  hardly  touched  the  freezing  point, 
and  the  sun  shone  out  at  once  with  a  warmth  that 
showed  his  resentment  at  this  unexpected  intrusion  of 
Winter. 

That  day  the  freemen  of  the  Republic  Avere  astir 
early.  To  get  to  the  polls  at  all  required  an  eftbrt.  If 
20 


PRESIDENT-MAKING.  21 

the  slothful  and  laggard  were  not  urged  and  transported 
thither,  the  ballots  would  be  few. 

At  an  early  hour,  on  every  road  leading  toward  the 
polls  was  to  be  seen  a  company  of  men  engaged  in 
breaking  the  way  thither.  A  half-dozen  pairs  of  oxen 
were  yoked  before  a  great  sled  with  a  score  of  men  and 
boys  in  attendance,  some  riding,  some  driving,  some 
carrying  shovels  to  dig  out  the  deepest  places,  and  all 
laughing,  jesting,  snow-balhng  each  other  and  enjoying 
this  first  surprise  which  Winter  had  given  them,  consti- 
tuted the  advance  guard  of  this  jolly  army  of  patriot 
rulers  on  their  way  to  the  universal  witenagemote  of 
the  Republic.  Following  in  the  wake  of  this  pioneer 
snow-plow,  perhaps  coupled  to  it,  would  be  another  sled 
or  two,  then  horses,  sleighs,  cutters,  and,  after  all  of 
them,  a  rabble  still  on  foot  following  along  the  track 
beaten  smooth  and  hard  by  those  in  advance.  Every 
house  that  was  passed  contributed  its  quota  to  the  pro- 
cession. Every  one  was  good  natured,  as  people  gen- 
erally are  in  cold  weather,  and  this  election  day  prom- 
ised to  be  even  more  of  a  holiday  than  the  occasion 
usually  is. 

Such  a  cavalcade  it  was  that  about  nine  o'clock 
that  morning  stopped  before  the  residence  of  Harri- 
son Kortright.  The  house  was  a  tidy  white  one,  stand- 
ing a  few  rods  back  from  the  road,  with  green  blinds, 
a  bit  of  porch  over  the  front  door,  and  two  dark  ever- 
greens flanking  upon  either  side  the  walk  that  led 
down  to  the  gate.  It  was  a  dwelling  somewhat  more 
pretentious  than  the  most  of  those  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, yet  by  no  means  betokening  wealth  or  luxury. 
Half  way  between  the  house  and  the  gate  was  our  little 
friend  Martin,  shoveling  manfully  away  at  a  path,  the 
level  snow  being  almost  even  with  his  shoulders,  and 
the  piled-up  masses  which  he  had  flung  out  on  either 
side  reaching  above  his  head.     He   paused  in  his  work 


22  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

as  the  procession  came  into  view  from  around  the  side 
of  the  hill,  looked  and  listened  for  a  moment,  and  then 
sturdily  resumed  his  labor  while  the  tears  showed  tliem- 
selves  under  his  dark  lashes.  It  was  evident  the  storm 
had  spoiled  the  holiday  of  which  he  had  dreamed. 

"Halloa,  Martin,"  cried  the  foremost  driver,  who, 
clinging  to  his  ox  yoke,  half  Avalked  and  was  half 
dragged  through  the  deep  snow.  "  Halloa,  Martin, 
hain't  you  got  your  path  dug  yet  V" 

"What's  the  matter  on  ye,  boy?"  said  another. 
"Snowed  up  so't  you  didn't  know  it  was  day  till  just 
now  ?" 

"Hi,  you  little  Barnburner,"  cried  a  third;  "you'll 
have  to  wake  up  earlier'u  this  if  you  are  going  to  make 
your  namesake  president.  How's  'Matty  Van'  any- 
how ?" 

"He  has  got  a  Avorse  road  than  that  before  him,"  said 
another. 

The  crowd  stopped  before  the  gate,  and  still  kept 
on  badgering  the  patient  boy. 

"Why  didn't  you  let  us  know  you  were  snowed  in  ?" 
said  one  of  them.  "We  Avould  have  come  over  and  dug 
you  out  long  afore  this,  if  you'd  told  us  on't." 

"The  Barnburners  will  be  snowed  in  Avorse  than  that 
before  night,"  said  another. 

"Oh,  you  let  the  Barnburners  aloue,"  retorted  one 
evidently  inclined  to  that  persuasicu,  "  They  Avill  take 
care  of  themselves  and  clean  out  Whigs  and  Demo- 
crats both,  first  you  knoAv." 

"Say,  sonny,"  cried  a  young  man  Avho  Avished  to 
shoAv  his  age  by  displaying  his  impertinence,  "is  your 
name  'Matty  Van'  ?" 

"No,  my  name  ain't  Matty  Van,"  shouted  the  boy, 
setting  his  teeth  close  and  shaking  his  shovel  at  the 
croAvd,  while  the  tears  coursed  doAvn  his  cheeks.  "And 
I  ain't  no   Barnburner  neither,   and  you  knoAv  it,  too. 


PllE.^IDENT-MAKING.  23 

You  had  better  jest  go  'long  and  mind  your  own  busi- 
ness, and  not  stay  here  makin'  a  fuss  and  a  noise  'round 
where  folks  is  sick." 

"  Sick  ?  Who's  sick,  my  son  ?"  spoke  half  a  dozen 
with  ready  sympathy. 

"My  father  is,— that's  Avho,"  said  the  boy,  begin- 
ning to  sob.  "And  that's  the  reason  the  path  ain't 
dug  out,  too.  There  wasn't  nobody  else  to  do  the 
chores,  and  a  boy  can't  do  everything  in  a  minute  if  he 
is  twelve  yeai's  old." 

"Sick?  The  Squire  sick  ?  Why,  I  declare,  we  hadn't 
heard  a  word  on  it,  son,"  said  an  elderly  man  who 
stood  on  the  foremost  sled,  while  the  whole  crowd  was 
hushed  at  once  into  respectful  silence. 

"Here  you  fellows,  a  half  dozen  on  ye,"  he  con- 
tinued. "Take  hold  here  and  help  shovel  that  boy's 
path.  What  the  dickens  you  doin',  anyhow  ?  Such  a 
lazy  unmannerly  crowd  ain't  got  together  every  day. 
One  would  think  you  hadn't  got  nothin'  better  on 
hand  than  just  to  stand  'round  and  holler  and  worry 
a  boy  because  he  is  at  work.  What's  the  matter  with 
your  daddy,  son  ?" 

"I  don't  know  nothin'  about  it,  sir,"  sobbed  the 
boy,  now  fairly  broken  down,  as  he  leaned  upon  the 
handle  of  his  shovel  and  gave  vent  to  his  grief  "I 
don't  know  nothin'  about  it.  He  was  jest  as  well 
as  could  be  last  night  when  I  went  to  bed,  and  this 
morning  the  first  I  heard  he  was  just  groanin'  and 
takin'  on  hke  he  was  going  to  die,  and  I  tried  to  get 
Ma  to  let  me  go  after  the  doctor,  but  she  said  the  snow 
was  too  deep.  I'd  a  had  him  here  before  now  if  she'd 
just  let  me  gone." 

"There  ain't  a  doubt  about  that,  my  son,"  said  the 
elderly  man.     "Here  you,  Orrin  Coltrane  on  the  horse 
yonder,  can't  you  go  for  the  doctor  for  the  Squire  ?  " 
"  'Tain't  no  sort  of  use  to  try  it,  Squire  Eitner,"  said 


24  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

the  man  addressed.  "  There  ain't  no  horse  in  the 
world  can  plow  his  way  through  that  depth  of  snow. 
Better  just  let  the  oxen  go  on  as  fast  as  they  can, 
and  I'll  -send  the  doctor  back  just  as  soon  as  we  get 
there." 

"AVcll,  it's  too  bad,"  exclaimed  Kitner.  "Squire 
Kortright's  lived  right  here,  man  and  boy,  nigh  on  to 
fifty  years  now,  and  I  don't  believe  he  Avas  ever  in  bed  a 
day  in  his  life  before.  If  there's  any  man  in  the  whole 
valley  that  is  ahvays  up  and  'round  and  a  stirrin', 
bright  and  healthy  and  willin',  that  man's  been  the 
Squire,  always.  I  don't  know  how  on  earth  we'll  get 
along  without  him  at  the  'lection  to-day." 

By  that  time,  twenty  Avilling  hands  had  dug  away 
the  snow  and  made  a  broad,  clean  path  from  house 
to  gate. 

"  I  guess,  boys,"  said  the  man  who  had  acted  as  spokes- 
man, "  I  guess  you  had  better  go  now  and  dig  out  the 
paths  around  the  house,  to  the  barn  and  the  well,  and 
the  like,  and  I  will  step  in  and  see  how  the  Squire's 
gettin'  on.  Won't  you  come  in  with  me  ?"  he  said, 
to  some  of  the  older  men  in  the  company. 

Three  or  four,  who  were  evidently  the  men  of  most 
note  in  the  procession,  walked  up  to  the  house  with 
Squire  Ritner  at  their  head,  stamping  their  feet  upon 
the  red  brick  Avalk  that  had  just  been  cleared,  brush- 
ing the  snow  from  their  clothes,  clearing  their  throats 
and  seeking  to  make  themselves  presentable  for  the  sick 
room  with  no  little  noise  and  ostentation.  As  they 
were  about  to  ascend  the  steps  of  the  porch  Rituer 
turned  and  said  to  those  in  the  road  : 

"You  may  as  well  drive  on  as  quick  as  you  have 
shoveled  out  the  paths  here.  Pick  up  all  the  men  folks 
as  you  go  along,  and  we  will  overtake  you  after  a  little, 
or  foot  it  the  rest  of  the  way  into  town,  just  as  it  hap- 
pens.     'Tain't  a    great  Avay,   anyhow,   and    it's    time 


PRESIDENT-MAKING.  25 

somebody  was  gettiu'  through  and  lookhi'  after  things 
there." 

Martin,  drying  his  tears  with  his  woolen  coat  sleeve, 
sobbing  and  red-eyed,  opened  tlie  door  for  the  neigh- 
bors, ushered  them  into  the  family  sitting-room  and  then 
went  to  inform  his  mother  of  their  arrival. 

Mrs.  Kortright,  a  snug,  tidy  matron,  whose  hair  was 
just  beginning  to  be  flecked  with  silver,  very  soon  en- 
tered and  saluted  them  each  by  name,  evidently  much 
more  composed  than  they  had  expected  to  find  her. 

"Martin  said  the  Squire  was  sick,  Mrs.  Kortright." 

"Yes,"  responded  the  lady  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone, 
"for  once  he  was  not  able  to  get  up  when  the  clock 
struck  six." 

"  i^othin'  serious,  I  hope  ?  " 

"Well,  he's  sufterin'  a  good  deal.  It's  rheumatiz, 
I  guess.  He's  easier  than  he  was,  though.  I  got  him 
to  take  some  boneset  tea  and  put  a  bag  of  baked  hops 
to  his  back  and  fixed  him  up  the  best  I  could,  because 
the  snow  was  so  deep,  Martin  couldn't  go  for  the  doctor, 
nohow. ' ' 

"It's  monstrous  sudden,"  said  one  of  the  men,  "and 
I  don't  see  how  we're  goin'  to  do  without  the  Squire 
for  clerk  at  the  'lection." 

"That's  just  what  I  told  him  this  mornin',"  said 
the  matron,  briskly.  "  Says  I,  '  Harrison  Kortright,  it's 
mighty  queer  that  the  first  time  any  thin'  is  the  matter 
with  you,  since  you  and  I  was  married,  twenty  odd  years 
ago,  should  be  just  the  very  day  of  this  election ;  and 
in  my  opinion,'  says  I  to  Mr.  Kortright,  'it's  just  a 
judgment  on  you  for  bein'  so  hard-hearted  and  unrea- 
sonable as  to  be  aginst  the  Abolitionists  and  in  favor  of 
keepin'  the  poor  niggers  in  slavery  year  after  year,  and 
you  free  and  forehanded,  and  doin'  as  you're  a  mind  .to 
'round  here  on  your  own  farm,  and  with  your  own  wife 
and  babies,  under  your  own  vine  and  fig  tree,'  says  I." 


26  HOT  PLOWSHARKS. 

"  Babies  V"  said  one  of  the  neighbors,  quizzically. 
"I  didn't  know" — 

"Oh,  pshaw,"  said  the  matron,  blushing  brightly  and 
putting  her  arm  over  the  shoulders  of  the  sturdy  boy 
who  stood  beside  her.  "Well,  Martin  is  rather  big  to 
])C  called  a  baby,  but  you  see  I  was  iniprovin'  the  occa- 
sion, Mr.  Sullivan." 

"Oh,  that  won't  do,  Miss  Kortright,"  said  the 
leader.  "You  shouldn't  be  takin'  advantage  of  a  man 
when  he's  down  that  way.  Besides  that,  we  can't 
allow  you  to  make  a  Barnburner  of  the  Squire,  if  he 
has  got  the  rheumatism.  You  know  he  is  just  about 
the  mainstay  of  the  Whig  party  here  in  Skendore  Town- 
ship, and  so  many  of  our  best  men  have  been  a  droppin' 
oft'  and  runnin'  with  the  Abolitionists  lately,  that  its 
just  nip  and  tuck  we  can  muster  enough  to  take  care  of 
Shields  and  his  crowd  of  Democrats.  You  haven't  got 
the  Squire  converted,  have  you  V 

Squire  Eitner  gave  a  quiet  chuckle  and  winked  quiz- 
zically toward  one  of  his  companions  as  he  spoke. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  'bout  that,  gentlemen,"  laughed 
Mrs.  Kortright.  "But  I  can  tell  you  one  thing.  If  last 
night  didn't  convert  that  man,  there  ain't  much  hopes 
of  his  ever  turnin'  from  the  error  of  his  ways,  it's  my 
opinion." 

"Do  you  think  it  would  do  for  us  to  see  him  V 

"  Oh,  certainly,  gentlemen,  certainly.  I  don't  'spose 
it's  any  thin'  dangerous,  though  Bub  here's  been  cryin' 
about  it  all  the  mornm',  and  Mr.  Kortright  certainly  does 
take  on  a  good  deal  whenever  he  moves  hand  or  foot." 

The  cheerful  dame  led  the  way  into  the  sick  room  of 
her  husband.  Hers  was  one  of  those  enviable  na- 
tures that  never  go  forward  on  the  path  of  life  to 
meet  trouble.  To  do  all  that  lay  in  her  power  to 
relieve  sutTering  was  instinctive  with  her,  and  the 
very  act  kept  her  mind  too  busy  to  admit  the  shadow 


PRESIDENT-MAKING.  27 

of  apprehension.  To  such  a  wife,  an  attack  of  rheu- 
matism seizing  upon  her  husband  after  twenty  years  of 
the  most  provoking  robustness,  was  an  opportunity 
not  to  be  neglected.  Pain  without  serious  danger  of  a 
fixtal  result,  then  the  popular  idea  of  this  disease,  was 
the  very  perfection  of  occasion  for  the  display  of  the 
qualities  of  the  nurse.  This  opportunity  Mrs.  Kortright 
had  fully  improved.  It  is  doubtful  if  in  her  heart 
she  was  not  half  glad  to  find,  when  awakened  by  her 
husband's  groans  at  daylight,  that  the  doctor  was  an 
impossibility  for  many  hours.  At  length  she  had 
a  chance  to  minister  to  her  husband  in  his  weak- 
ness. To  her  alone  he  should  owe  relief— perhaps 
even  restoration.  She  had  fully  justified  her  reputa- 
tion as  a  nurse  and  had  brought  into  play  all  her  house- 
wifely knowledge  of  herbs  and  simples  to  relieve  the 
fierce  attack  that  wrung  the  strong  man's  frame.  In 
this  she  had  in  a  great  measure  succeeded.  The  self- 
constituted  committee  of  condolence  found  their  stal- 
wart neighbor  propped  up  in  bed,  wrapped  in  many 
drapings,  with  the  smell  of  pungent  herbs  filling  the 
room.  Already  his  pain  had  been  greatly  modified, 
and  the  moisture  of  the  hand  which  he  extended  in 
welcome  promised  quick  recovery. 

"How  do  you  do,  Squire?"  said  Eitner  heartily, 
shaking  his  hand.  "I  tell  you  we're  sorry  to  see  yon 
in  this  fix.  I  was  just  a  tellin'  Miss  Kortright  that  you 
was  about  the  last  man  in  the  neighborhood  that  any- 
body'd  have  expected  to  hear  of  bein'  sick." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,"  said  Kortright  half  jestingly. 
"Just  a  deep  cold  that  I've  got,  on  account  of  this 
storm,  I  guess.  I  expect  to  be  about  before  the  snow's 
off." 

"I  don't  know  so  well  about  that,"  said  Shields. 
"  It's  goin'  mighty  lively.  This  hot  sun  and  south  wind 
is  just  takin'  it  off  almost  as   fast  as  it  come.     Just 


28  HOT  FLOWSnAEES 

the  teams  that  went  along  hreakhig  the  road  packed  it 
down  smooth  and  made  right  good  sleighin'." 

"It'll  be  mighty  bad  for  'lection  though,"  said  an- 
other. 

"  "Wal,  now,  I  don't  know  'bout  that,  Mr.  Van  Wor- 
mer,"  said  the  sick  man,  disputatiously,  the  instinct  of 
the  partisan  getting  the  better  of  his  pain.  "  I  don't 
know  about  that.  I've  always  noticed  that  'tain't  the 
pleasantest  days  that  brings  out  the  biggest  vote.  If 
what  Shields  says  'bout  the  roads  is  true,  it's  my  notion 
we'll  get  a  bigger  vote  than  if  it  hadn't  snowed  at  all. 
It's  my  idea  that  if  a  man  wanted  to  get  out  the  very 
biggest  possible  vote,  and  had  the  makin'  of  a  day  to 
suit  himself,  and  had  watched  'lections  as  long  as  I 
have,  that  he  would  have  a  big  storm  in  the  morning 
and  the  rest  of  the  day  bright  and  clear. ' ' 

"Wal  now,"  said  Kitner,  "I  had  never  thought  on't 
in  that  light.  There's  bound  to  be  some  folks  stay  at 
home  on  'count  of  the  storm." 

"  Ko  doubt,"  said  Kortright,  "  a  few  on  'em  of  course. 
But  then  you  know,  neighbor,  the  loafers  will  come  out 
anyhow." 

"Of  course — and  the  Democrats.  That's  the  reason 
Shields  got  started  so  early,"  said  Van  Wormer,  mis- 
chievously. 

"Oh,  Avell,  now,"  said  Shields,  shutting  his  thin  lips 
firmly,  "you  needn't  trouble  youi-self  about  Shields. 
He  was  raised  a  Democrat  when  Democrat  meant  the 
people's  right,  afore  Hunkers  or  Barnburners  was  ever 
heard  on, .  and  about  the  first  thing  he  learned  from 
his  father  was  that  votin'  weren't  a  privilege  so  much 
as  it  was  a  duty,  and  he  always  has  voted,  whatever  the 
weather,  and  he  always  will,  too,  as  long  as  he  can  get 
to  the  polls.  I  guess  the  Squire  '11  bear  me  out  in  say- 
ing that's  what  a  man  ought  to  do,  too." 

"Yes,"  said  Kortright,  doubtfully,  "I  believe  it  is. 


PRESIDENT-MAKINQ.  29 

I've  always  voted  myself,  and  always .  expected  to  as 
long  as  I  lived,  as  you  say,  but  I  guess  I  shall  have  to 
score  a  miss  this  time." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Ritner,  quickly.  "A  man  that's 
been  clerk  of  the  'lection  board  as  long  as  you  have 
ain't  a  goin'  to  be  sick  right  handy  by  the  village 
here,  and  not  have  a  chance  to  vote.  The  poll-holders 
'11  have  to  come  and  bring  you  the  box,  so  't  you  won't 
lose  your  vote.  We  can't  afford  that,  this  time,  any- 
how." 

"Wal,  now,  I  don't  know,"  said  Shields,  banter- 
ingly.  "  We'll  have  to  argue  that  pint,  and  see  whether 
the  poll-holders  have  got  any  right  to  be  carryin'  the 
box  around  the  country  for  folks  to  vote  in,  just  here 
and  there  and  everywhere." 

"Oh,  you  know  that's  customary,"  said  Ritner,  in  a 
conciliatory  tone.  "Always  been  done,  no  matter  what 
set  wanted  it — here  in  Skendore,  anyhow.  Whatever 
the  law  may  be,  that's  what  we've  always  agreed  to, 
and  there  hain't  never  been  no  objection.  Ain't  that 
so.  Squire  Kortright  ?  " — appealing  to  the  sick  man. 

"Well,  yes,"  answered  the  Squire,  smiling.  "That's 
always  been  the  custom  here,  and  it's  a  good  custom, 
too.  I  don't  know  if  it's  exactly  strict  law,  but  it's 
good  sense  and  good  neighborship,  that's  certain.  How- 
ever, you  needn't  mind  about  doin'  it  for  me,  for  I'd 
made  up  my  mind  not  to  vote,  if  the  day  had  been  ever 
so  fair  and  I'd  been  as  well  as  I  ever  was  in  my  life," 

"  Not  vote  ! "  they  all  ejaculated  in  surprise.  "  Why, 
Squire  Kortright  I " 

"Ah,  gentlemen,"  said  Mrs.  Kortright  with  a  trium- 
phant smile,  "  what  did  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"You  don't  mean,"  said  Yan  Wormer  in  surprise, 
"  that  you  have  turned  Barnburner,  Squire  ?  " 

"  Well,  no,  not  exactly  that ;  though  I'll  tell  you  what 
I  do  mean,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Squire,  suddenly  sit- 


30  nOT  PLOWSHARES. 

ting  bolt-uprighi  in  bed,  and  speaking  in  a  voice  ren- 
dered almost  tragic  by  its  solemnity  and  the  suggestion 
of  his  surroundings,  "I  do  mean  that  I  won't  never 
cast  a  ballot  for  any  man  that  holds  a  slave,  nor  for  any 
man  that  thinks  another  ought  to  hold  one,  nor  for 
any  man  that  is  willin'  the  law  should  let  any  man  be 
another  man's  slave,  so  long  as  I  live.  So  help  me 
God  !" 

There  was  an  instant's  solemn  hush  in  the  sick  room, 
as  they  listened  to  the  burning  words  and  looked  upon 
the  flushed  face  and  upraised  hand  of  the  speaker  . 

A  shriek  pierced  the  stillness. 

A  child's  voice. 

"  IIo  !  "  A  sharp,  shrill  shout.    Another. 

"  Help  1    Help  ! " — a  man's  hoarse,  agonized  appeal. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"arise,  sir  knight!" 

When  the  party  of  neighbors  went  into  his  father's 
room,  Martin  strolled  out  upon  the  porch.  There  he 
stood  in  the  bright  sunshine,  gazing  longingly  after  the 
procession,  now  almost  lost  in  the  distance  on  its  way 
to  the  village,  which  lay  nestling  under  the  hill  two  miles 
away. 

To  the  boy's  thought,  the  earth's  axis  ran  through 
Skendoah  village.  It  was  only  a  little  hamlet,  consist- 
ing of  a  church,  a  tavern,  two  stores  and  a  few  dozen 
houses,  and  he  knew  that  there  were  great  cities  and 
towns  beyond.  He  himself  had  once  been  to  the  city  with 
his  father,  and  in  the  long  winter  nights  he  had  listened 
with  wondering  delight  to  the  story  of  marvels  which 
his  father  had  seen.  For  Squire  Kortright  in  his  youth 
had  been  a  wanderer ;  although  he  was  born  in  the 
valley,  his  veins  were  full  of  the  bluest  and  liveliest 
Yankee  blood ;  go  somewhere  he  must.  The  migra- 
tory instinct  was  as  strong  within  his  heart  as  in  the 
barn-swallow  that  brooded  under  the  eaves  of  the  great 
red  barn  his  father  had  built,  not  only  after  the  Dutch 
style  of  his  neighbors,  which  he  readily  recognized  as 
superior  to  that  prevailing  in  New  England  and  ac- 
cepted with  the  true  adaptiveness  of  his  race,  but  also 
of  a  size  and  conspicuousness  to  make  it  a  landmark  in 
the  valley.  He  did  not  go  West.  He  was  the  youngest 
of  many,  all  of  whom  had  flitted  early  from  the  home- 
nest  and  with  sturdy  hands  had  let  in  the  sunlight  upon 
many  a  forest  home  in  the  westward-stretching  wilder- 
31 


3S  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

ncss.  lie  was  the  last,  and  the  mother's  heart  yearned 
over  him  and  could  not  let  him  go.  So  it  was  fearly 
understood  that  he  should  remain  at  home,  and  in  con- 
sideration of  his  having  thus  ignored  the  blandishments 
of  fortune  and  the  Great  West,  should  inherit  the  pater- 
nal acres.  But  he  had  no  thought  of  waiting  quietly 
for  his  patrimony.  He  must  Avork,  and  work  for  him- 
self. His  father,  yet  hale  and  strong,  with  the  aid  of  a 
hired  man  in  harvest  could  manage  the  farm.  He  must 
go  East  and  work.  He  did  not  know  exactly  what  he 
would  do — he  hardly  cared.  To  do  something,  to  earn 
money,  to  match  brawn  and  brain  against  gold — that 
was  his  animating  impulse — an  inheritance  his  parents 
had  given  him  before  they  thought  of  bestowing  Para- 
dise Bay  upon  him.  It  was  not  an  ignoble  desire.  It 
was  not  for  money  as  an  end  that  he  wrought.  It  was 
not  mere  greed  of  possession,  but  the  nobler  lust  of  ac- 
complishment. It  was  the  grand  egotism  which  has 
been  the  whip  and  spur  of  American  progress,  the  undy- 
ing aspiration  to  do,  to  excel,  to  work  miracles  for  the 
mere  sense  of  power  that  goes  with  a  completed  task. 

So,  while  yet  a  youth,  he  had  bidden  his  parents  good- 
by  one  summer  morning,  and  gone  with  a  drover  to 
New  York  in  the  place  of  one  who  had  sickened  the 
night  before  at  Kockboro.  He  had  been  at  another  time 
one  of  the  crew  of  a  canal-boat  as  far  west  as  Lockport, 
and  told  with  vociferous  laughter  of  the  funny  "boom  " 
in  values  that  occurred  in  that  almost  forgotten  bor- 
ough, Avhen  the  canal  first  reached  it  and  developed  a 
water  power  which  many  fondly  thought  would  make 
the  little  village  a  metropolis.  He  had  gone  there, 
touched  by  the  mania  for  speculation,  thinking  to  invest 
a  little  money  profitably ;  but  finding  the  excitement  so 
great  that  the  prices  dismayed  him,  he  came  away  with 
his  money  in  his  pocket — a  fact  he  never  failed  to  men- 
tion with  great  satisfaction. 


'^ABLSE,    SIB   KNIGHT."'  %?, 

He  had  been  to  the  Eastward  too.  With  another 
Yankee  instinct,  he  wanted  to  see  where  his  forebears 
came  from,  to  survey  for  himself  the  surroundings  that 
had  been  made  familiar  to  him  by  the  fireside  tales  of 
his  parents.  He  had  found  the  place  far  up  on  a  rugged 
mountain  side — a  little  patch  of  open  land,  green  where 
the  rocks  gave  the  grass  a  chance  to  grow  ;  a  little 
mountain  lake  glancing  the  morning  sunshine  into  the 
humble  doorway  ;  a  pretty  brook,  full  of  speckled  trout, 
gleaming  among  the  alders  as  it  hied  away  to  its  work 
of  weaving  and  spinning  and  turning  and  forging  in  the 
valley  below,  where  it  was  fretted  with  dams,  imprisoned 
in  locks  and  finally  beaten  into  foam  over  groaning 
wheels.  It  was  one  of  those  places  where,  at  the  best, 
subsistence  must  have  been  an  endless  struggle,  yet 
one  whose  quaint  charms  so  impress  those  reared  among 
them,  that  generations  of  prairie  and  forest-born  West- 
ern descendants  hardly  release  themselves  from  its  mys- 
tical enchantment.  Ah  !  sweet  mountain  home-nests  of 
the  nation's  fairest  life.  In  the  homes  of  the  Mid-west 
the  farmers'  children  dream  to-day  of  the  fairy-land 
of  which  their  grandparents  tell.  The  herder  on  the 
plains  looks  toward  the  East,  and  feeds  his  fancy  with  a 
picture  of  "the  old  place"  which  perhaps  his  father 
never  saw.  When  he  makes  an  unusually  "good  thing" 
on  a  shipment  of  cattle,  he  will  leave  his  "traps"  at 
Chicago,  and  go  on  to  visit  this  Mecca  of  his  dream.  He 
will  return  disgusted.  Then  the  thread  of  tradition  will 
be  broken.  Laughter  and  ridicule  will  take  the  place 
of  loving  glamour,  in  telling  the  story  of  his  origin,  and 
from  thenceforth  New  England  as  an  active  inspiration 
will  pass  out  of  the  western  stock ;  thenceforth  they 
will  be  true  and  loyal  children  of  the  plain,  and  will  turn 
toward  the  Occident  when  they  pray  for  happiness,  as 
well  as  Avhen  they  offer  sacrifice  to  Mammon. 

The  boy  who  stood  upon  the  porch  knew  of  the  world 


34  .HOT  PL 0 WSHARES. 

that  lay  beyond  tlie  tield  of  vision  by  this  tradition,  so 
much  more  real  and  inspiring  than  the  printed  page 
could  be.  His  father  had  seen  and  felt  the  life  of  the 
city  and  the  mountain  ;  had  wrought  in  the  mills  of  the 
East  for  a  season ;  had  made  at  least  one  trip  on  salt 
water,  and  had  seen  the  bright-bosomed  lakes  of  the 
West.  He  knew  that  the  world  did  not  revoh^e  around 
the  village  of  Skendoah,  yet  it  was  to  him  the  sole  gate- 
way to  the  life  that  lay  beyond.  It  was  the  world  in 
jjosse.  He  had  been  strictly  reared.  The  father  had  worn 
out  the  vagrant  humor  early.  When  he  settled  down  to 
the  duties  of  life  on  the  paternal  farm,  there  was  no  fur- 
ther thought  of  unrest.  His  life-work  was  before  him  ; 
and  he  took  it  up.  Curiosity  was  smothered  in  that 
hour.  So  too  with  ambition,  change  and  hope  for  bet- 
terment. Hereafter  there  was  no  holiday  in  his  life. 
The  hillside  farm  was  his  tabernacle,  from  which  he 
had  no  desire  ever  to  go  forth.  He  wore  a  silk  hat  on 
Sunday,  and  was  called  Squii'e  before  his  thirtieth  birth- 
day. He  was  a  solid  man.  But  the  virus  of  unrest 
that  was  in  his  blood  he  had  transmitted  to  his  son, 
who  saw  the  gay  procession  of  road  breakers  disappear 
around  the  bend  of  the  hill  with  tears  of  bitter  disap- 
pointment. 

Martin  had  been  to  the  bleak,  hill-side  school-house 
every  day  it  had  been  open  since  his  seventh  birth- 
day. He  was  a  good  scholar — all  the  teachers  said  that, 
and  a  good  boy,  all  said,  too,  except  one  who  called  him 
mischievous.  He  knew  all  about  the  hills  and  woods 
and  springs  and  brooks  in  the  neighborhood.  There  was 
not  a  wood-chuck's  hole  within  a  circle  of  half  a  mile, 
that  he  had  not  visited  and  speculated  on  the  dislodg- 
ment  of  its  occupant.  But  his  Avorld  was  getting  too 
small  for  him  of  late.  He  wanted  to  go  through  the 
Gate  Skendoah  into  the  World  Beautiful.  Of  course  he 
went  to  the  village  to  church  and  Sunday-school.     But 


''ARISE,    SIR   KNIGHT!''  35 

he  took  his  home-Ufe  with  him  there — father  and  mother. 
He  went  now  and  then  to  the  village  store,  but  he  always 
had  some  errand  to  keep  him  company  and  repress  his 
enjoyment.  He  wanted  to  go  alone,  and  at  least  peep  out 
at  the  boundless.  He  had  been  to  Utica,  once,  when 
his  father  was  drawn  a  juror  in  the  court  there.  If  he 
had  been  alone,  he  would  have  learned  a  great  deal.  He 
longed  to  know,  to  realize,  to  subjugate  for  himself, 
the  kingdoms  of  this  world.  The  inquisitiveness  of  the 
Yankee  is  proverbial.  He  is  said  to  be  prone  to  ask 
questions.  It  is  perhaps  true,  and  it  is  certain  that  he 
will  also  pick  up  more  facts  with  fewer  questions  than 
any  other  mortal.  Occidentalism  always  impels  hu- 
manity to  learn,  to  acquire,  to  do.  The  world-life  in  our 
veins  is  stirred  into  a  fever  which  can  be  appeased  only 
by  action,  knowledge,  achievement. 

The  boy  was  just  beginning  to  feel  this  New-World 
disease.  His  father  had  seen  it  in  his  eye  when  he  asked 
to  go  to  the  election  the  day  before,  and  had  shrewdly 
determined  to  indulge  rather  than  attempt  to  suppress 
it.  The  problem  of  government  was  ah-eady  before  the 
boy's  mind,  and  his  reply  to  his  father  had  been  per- 
fectly sincere,  when  he  told  him  he  wanted  to  see  "how 
a  President  was  made."  Of  course,  he  did  not  exclude 
from  his  anticipation  the  meeting  of  boys  from  all  parts 
of  the  toAvnship,  or  the  luxury  of  "doing"  Skendoah 
all  alone  for  a  whole  day.  His  di'eam  had  come  to 
naught.  The  election  day  had  daAvned  and  would  set 
and  he  would  not  see  how  a  President  was  made.  It 
would  be  four  years  before  the  chance  would  come  again. 
He  knew  that.  The  political  ferment  that  was  just 
taking  hold  of  the  American  mind  had  left  its  impress 
on  his.  He  knew  the  times  and  seasons  of  our  govern- 
ment far  better  than  the  city  boy  of  to-day  knows  them. 
Pour  years — he  wondered  how  big  he  would  be  then — 
what  he  would  have  done,  learned  and  seen,  by  that 


36  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

time.     The  loss  of  his  hoUday  meant  almost  an  eternity 
of  delay  to  him. 

He  had  not  told  his  mother.  He  knew  his  father's 
illness  made  it  impossible  that  he  should  be  absent,  and 
he  would  not  add  to  her  care  by  acquainting  her  with 
his  disappointment.  As  he  brooded  over  his  ill  luck,  his 
eye  fell  upon  one  of  the  evergreens  that  stood  beside 
the  path.  They  were  his  mother's  trees.  She  had 
planted  them  soon  after  her  marriage,  and  they  had 
grown  to  overtop  the  house.  They  were  of  a  kind  then 
very  rare  in  the  country,  and  passers-by  often  stopped 
to  wonder  at  them.  The  seed  had  come  from  over  the 
sea — aye,  even  from  that  side  the  earth  that  lies  below 
our  feet,  and  the  name  told  the  story  of  its  origin.  It 
was  written  on  the  little  packet  of  seeds,  which  was 
all  that  the  letter  contained  Avhich  had  come  so  far  to 
the  young  Squire's  wife — "  Cryptomeria  Jajionica,  or 
Japan  Mourner. "  She  had  kept  the  bit  of  paper,  with 
these  words  written  upon  it  in  a  fine,  manly  hand,  "  so 
as  not  to  forget  the  name,"  she  said ;  but  she  had  once 
told  her  boy  a  curious  story  of  a  friend  of  her  girlhood 
— a  bright-eyed  but  poor  boy,  who  had  romped  and 
roamed  with  her  about  the  hills  and  valleys,  until  child- 
hood's feet  had  touched  the  borderland  of  Youth ;  who 
had  then  gone  away  to  the  East,  on  foot  and  alone, 
not  to  seek  his  fortune  so  much  as  to  find  the  know- 
ledge for  which  he  thirsted.  He  had  promised  to  return 
when  his  task  was  accomplished.  But  the  years  went 
by,  and  the  girl  heard  no  more  of  her  boy-friend.  She 
grew  to  womanhood.  He  did  not  come.  He  was  almost 
forgotten — quite  forgotten,  by  all  in  the  valley  save  the 
girl  whom  he  had  made  his  special  playmate.  Even  to 
her,  his  memory  had  grown  dim.  Harrison  Kortright 
had  wooed  and  won  her.  She  only  vaguely  wished  that 
Dawson  Fox  might  know  her  good  fortune,  when  one 
day  a  stranger  came  to  her  mother's  house— tall,  fair- 


''ARISE,    Sm   KNIGHT!''  37 

haired,  laughing-eyed.  Her  heart  leaped  in  half  recog- 
nition when  she  saw  him,  but  she  shook  her  head,  and 
said  "i^o,  she  did  not  know  him."  When  he  told  his 
name,  and  stood  looking  as  though  he  would  clasp  lier 
in  his  arms  and  devour  her  with  those  hungry  eyes  and 
quivering  lips,  she  coolly  gave  him  her  hand,  and  in 
light,  even  tones,  asked  him  to  sit  down.  She  talked  of 
everything  but  the  old  times,  until  he  could  bear  it 
no  longer.  Then  he  burst  out  with  a  story  of  boy-love, 
effort  and  conquest,  and  told  her  he  had  come  back  a 
man  to  perform  the  vow  of  the  boy. 

The  woman's  lip  trembled,  as  she  told  the  story  to 
her  son  on  a  summer  afternoon,  sitting  on  the  porch. 
"But  he  was  only  thirteen,"  she  added,  "when  he 
went  away.  Who  would  ever  have  thought  he  would 
remember  me  ?" 

He  was  not  rich,  he  said.  She  knew  that,  Avithout  the 
saying.  His  was  not  one  of  the  natures  that  grow  rich, 
except  in  love  and  good  works.  He  was  not  rich,  but 
he  had  worked  hard,  had  studied  diligently,  had  gradu- 
ated from  an  Eastern  College,  was  now  an  ordained 
minister  of  the  Gospel,  and  had  been  called  to  go  as  a 
missionary  to  the  heathen  of  the  old,  old  world  beyond 
the  great  Pacific,  and  had  come  to  ask  her  if  she  would 
go  with  him — be  his  wife.  She  told  him  she  was  to 
marry  the  prosperous  young  farmer  whose  acres  joined 
her  father's  land.  She  did  not  tell  her  young  boy  what 
he  said  in  reply,  but  only  that  he  preached  in  the  vil- 
lage church  the  next  Sunday,  and  then  went  away, 
and  she  had  never  seen  or  heard  from  him  since,  except 
by  the  little  package  of  seeds  that  came  a  year  after- 
ward, to  let  her  know  that  he  had  arrived  safely  in  the 
strange  land  to  which  he  was  bound,  on  what  seemed  a 
vain  attempt  to  bring  God's  word  to  those  who  would 
have  none  of  it. 

"  He  was  only  thirteen  when  he  went  away  !"  said  the 


38  HOT  FL  0  W^IIAIiEti. 

buy  to  himself,  as  he  glanced  up  at  one  of  the  drooping 
evergreens  which  served  to  keep  alive  the  memory  of  a 
dead  love.  As  he  looked,  he  saw  that  the  mass  of  cling- 
ing snow  had  weighed  down  one  of  the  long,  slender 
branches,  until  it  had  split  oft'  from  the  trunk,  and  was 
now  left  clinging  to  the  tree  only  by  a  shred  of  bark 
and  a  tough  splinter  of  wood  fibre.  The  outer  end, 
thrust  forward  by  the  fall,  was  lying  on  the  floor  of  the 
porch.  The  boy  seized  it,  and  by  a  sturdy  pull  de- 
tached it  from  its  socket.  Then  he  shook  out  the  snow, 
and  held  the  long  green  branch  above  him  like  a  banner, 
while  he  marched  to  and  fro  up  and  down  the  porch. 
The  banner  was  large  and  the  knight  was  small,  but  his 
plain  face  was  flushed,  and  his  eyes  burned  Avith  a  light 
as  pure  and  steady  as  ever  shone  upon  the  face  of  one 
who  sought  for  deeds  of  high  emprise. 

His  dreams  were  high — dreams  of  valiant  well-doing 
in  the  manhood  which  he  panted  to  enjoy.  The  great 
green  banner  taxed  his  strength  to  bear  it  upright  on 
his  shoulder,  but  he  struggled  bravely  with  its  weight. 
Its  tip  brushed  the  ceiling  of  the  porch.  Its  lower 
limbs  dragged  on  the  floor.  It  was  in  ludicrous  dispro- 
portion with  himself,  but  to  his  dream  it  was  the  pennon 
of  a  knight.  He  was  a  squire  who  waited  but  an  op- 
portunity to  win  his  spurs.  His  step  was  springy  and 
his  muscles  tense  with  longing  for  life's  battle.  The 
dead  present  was  but  ashes  beneath  his  feet.  His 
disappointment  Avas  forgotten.  How  a  President  was 
made  concerned  him  not.  In  his  dream-thought  there 
was  no  doubt.  He  was  the  peer  of  him  who  rode  the 
gj-ay  horse  and  "fit  the  Mexicans."  Fancy's  fiery 
chariot  upbore  his  feet — the  gateway  of  the  future  that 
should  never  be  swinging  back,  and  his  e3-es  feasted  on 
glories  that  only  the  pure  in  heart  may  see  when  they 
dream  dreams  of  self-forgetful  wonder-working. 

He  heard  a  cry,  and  glanced  swiftly  toAvard  the  wiu- 


^'ARIHE,    mi   KNIGHT!''  30 

flow  of  his  father's  room.  His  dream  had  cast  out  fear, 
but  the  spectre  of  disease  thus  suddenly  recalled  by  the 
thought  of  his  father's  sickness  blanched  his  young  face. 
As  he  looked  toward  the  valley  he  saw  the  doctor's 
horse  and  cutter  coming  past  the  school  house.  His  face 
lighted  with  joy,  for  he  remembered  his  father's  pain  and 
thought  relief  was  at  hand. 

Another  cry — now  shrill  and  clear.  Turning  to  the 
left,  he  saw  rushing  down  the  hillside  road  a  pair  of  dark 
blood-bays  attached  to  a  light  sleigh  that  only  dimly 
showed  above  the  wall  of  snow  bounding  the  track  the 
road-breakers  had  beaten  down.  Their  sleek  coats  glis- 
tened in  the  sunshine.  The  richly-mounted  harness 
sparkled  as  they  moved.  Their  black  manes  flew  back 
from  their  high-arched  necks  in  tossing  waves.  On 
they  came  at  full  speed,  the  loose  reins  flying  from  side 
to  side  as  they  ran.  The  richly  caparisoned  sleigh 
bounded  back  and  forth  in  the  narrow  track.  One  robe 
hung  over  the  dash-board  ;  another  had  fallen  out,  and 
its  red  lining  showed  like  a  stain  of  blood  on  the  white 
track  behind.  A  young  girl  clung  to  the  back  of  the 
sleigh,  her  blanched  face  turned  with  the  fascination  of 
a  mortal  terror  toward  the  frightened  animals  which 
whirled  her  onward  to  destruction.  Shriek  after  shriek 
went  up  from  her  lips.  Far  behind  them,  making  frantic 
gestures  and  uttering  hoarse  cries  for  aid,  a  man  was 
running,  so  slowly  in  comparison  with  the  flying  steeds 
that  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  standing  still. 

The  boy  stood  an  instant  as  though  petrified.  Over  the 
white  expanse  he  saw  the  frightened  runaways  come 
with  long  swift  strides  down  the  gentle  declivity  toward 
the  spot  where  he  stood.  Kow  he  saw  their  outstretched 
heads  as  they  came  straight  on  ;  then,  as  the  course 
changed,  their  gleaming  sides  with  the  tossing  cockle- 
shell behind  and  its  clinging  white-faced  occupant.  The 
light  of  his  dream  was  in  his  eye  ;  his  teeth  close  shut 


40  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

and  nostrils  spread  while  his  hand  ckitched  nervously  the 
great  dark  bough  upon  his  shoulder. 

Ah,  ho^-ish  squire,  thine  hour  has  come  !  The  prayer 
of  faith  unsyllabled,  the  aspiration  of  a  heart  unsmirched 
by  sin  has  won  from  fate  the  golden  opportunity.  Thy 
budding  manhood  hath  its  devoir.  Do  or  die  !  Stake 
length  of  days  against  thy  dream  ! 

He  stood  still,  gazing  at  the  furious  beasts,  each  striv- 
ing to  outdo  the  other  in  a  mad  race  from  some  imagined 
danger.  They  were  scarce  twenty  lengths  from  the  end 
of  the  pathway  that  led  down  to  the  road.  He  could 
see  their  black  eyes,  the  white  foam  that  hung  upon 
their  lips  and  splashed  with  light  their  dark  sides.  He 
saw  the  sunlit  steaming  of  their  nostrils  ;  he  heard  their 
sharp  snorts  of  terror  as  they  looked  back  at  the  sleigh, 
transformed  by  their  fears  into  a  threatening  pursuer. 

All  at  once  the  boy  sprang  into  life.  "Whoa!"  he 
shouted,  sharply  and  imperiously,  as  if  the  terror-stricken 
animals  must  obey  his  command.  The  green  banner  was 
upreared  once  more.  He  dashed  down  the  steps  and 
along  the  path  where  lately  he  had  stood  weeping  with 
vexation.  He  did  not  think — there  was  no  time  to 
think !  The  banner  showed  above  the  heaped-up  bank 
of  snow ;  the  knight  was  almost  hidden  in  the  trench. 
"Whoa!"  he  cried  again,  as  he  reached  the  roadway. 
There,  almost  upon  him,  w^ere  the  straining  steeds.  Their 
red  nostrils  shone,  braced  and  quivering.  Their  breath 
came,  hot  and  spumy.     "  Whoa  !" 

The  otf  horse  saw  the  little  objector  and  his  quaint 
forest  banner  burst  from  the  snow  almost  beneath  his 
feet,  and  shied  with  fright.  The  movement  threw  his 
mate  against  the  snowy  wall  beyond.  At  the  next 
stride  he  landed  in  the  soft,  clinging  mass.  The  boy 
saw  his  advantage  in  an  instant.  His  eyes  flashed  fire. 
The  light  of  battle  glared  in  his  face.  He  set  the  bush 
in  rest  as  though  it  had  been  a  lance  and  charged  on  the 


''ARllSE,    SIR   KNIGHT!''  41 

horse  nearest  him.     '^Whoa!^'  he  shouted  through  his 
set  teeth.      Tlie   brute  flinched  and  pressed  his   mate 
farther  and  fartlier  into  the  snow.     Botli  were  tlounder- 
ing  in  the  wliite,  untrodden  depths.     The  boy  dropped 
his  bush  and  sprang  at  tlie  bridle  of  the  nearest.     His 
right  hand  caught  the  bit,  and  the  left  shut  close  upon  a 
lock  of  flying  mane.     The  frightened  beast  reared  upon 
his  hind  feet  and  tossed  the  boy  about  as  if  he  had  been 
a  feather.     The  cruel  iron-shod  hoofs  struck  against  him 
but  he  kept  his  hold.     The  near  horse  floundered  and 
fell.     The  one  to  which  the  boy  clung  stood   upright, 
staggered,   fell    across  his    mate.      Half-buried    in ''the 
snow,  both  struggled  with  a  Avild  frenzy  that  was  deaf 
and  blind  to  everything  save  an  all-possessing  fear  and 
the   untamable    instinct  of   self  preservation.     Under- 
neath the  struggling,  heaving,  snorting  mass,  half  hid- 
den by  the  tossing  snow,  beaten,  bruised  and  crushed, 
was  the  boy.     The  overturned  sleigh  stood  on  its  side.' 
The  little  girl,  thrown  harmlessly  against  the  yielding 
bank,  had  scrambled  up,  and  half-way  to  the  house,  stood 
gazing   at  the  half-buried  pile   of  writhing  limbs  and 
straining  forms.     The  air  was  full  of  shrieks  and  cries. 
Squire  Ritner  and  his  fellows  came  rushing  from  the 
house.     The  mother  flew  shrieking  down  the  path.     The 
Doctor  lashed  his  horse  into  a  run  to  reach  the  scene  of 
the  encounter  he  had  witnessed.     The  drooping  runner 
was  but  a  few  steps  away.     The  horses,  one  above  the 
other,  struggled  and  fought  to  rise.    The  boy,  now  here, 
now  there,  then  hidden  underneath— could  it  be  he  was 
alive  ? 

^  Willing  but  cautious  hands  seized  bit  and  rein.  Martha 
Kortright  with  a  woman's  instinct  caught  the  fright- 
ened girl  in  her  arms  and  stood  moaning  with  short \m- 
conscious  breaths.  Suddenly,  her  husband,  risen  half 
clad  from  his  bed,  shot  past  her.  His  unshod  feet 
hardly  seemed  to  touch  the  snow.    Before  any  one  could 


42  HOT   PLOWSHARES. 

cry  out  to  prevent,  he  had  the  ott"  horse  by  the  bit ;  had 
forced  him  back  with  an  iron  grip,  and  reacliiug  down, 
had  seized  with  his  right  hand  the  boy,  in  whom  his 
father's  heart  was  wrapped  up,  had  drawn  him  half-way 
from  beneath  tlie  other  horse,  when  the  one  lie  had  by 
the  bit  reared  again,  again  fell  across  his  mate,  throw- 
ing the  father  headlong  beside  the  son  and  holding 
both  beneath  him. 

But  in  the  place  of  Harrison  Kortright  stood  now  a 
man  who  was  even  his  superior  in  strength.  Younger 
by  some  years,  broad  shouldered,  with  a  square,  firm-set 
jaw  and  dark  flowing  beard,  he  was  still  panting  for 
breath,  but  his  face  was  aflame  with  passion.  Seizing 
the  uppermost  horse  by  jaw  and  nostril  he  suddenly 
twisted  back  his  head  with  relentless  strength  until  with 
a  cry  of  pain  the  animal  rolled  upon  his  back  doAvn  the 
slope  of  yielding  snow,  into  the  beaten  track.  Harrison 
Kortright  rose  with  the  limp,  insensible  body  of  his  son 
in  his  arms.  The  doctor  leaped  from  his  sleigh.  The 
neighbors  assisted  the  father  into  the  house.  He  would 
not  yield  his  son  to  any  other  arm.  The  doctor  ran 
by  his  side,  feeling  for  the  boy's  pulse,  and  giving  calm 
directions  as  to  his  carriage.  Mrs.  Kortright  followed, 
bearing  the  little  girl  in  her  arms.  The  stranger,  blown 
and  flushed  with  exertion,  stood  beside  his  horses,  both 
of  which  had  risen  and  stood  looking  curiously  at  the 
havoc  they  had  wrought. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
"fok  wounds,  balm." 

Harrisox  Kortright  staggered  into  the  house,  and 
laid  his  insensible  son  upon  the  chintz-covered  lounge 
in  the  dining-room.  His  own  face  was  as  white  as  the 
pinched  and  weazened  one  that  looked  up  from  the 
pillow,  but  he  waived  aside  the  friendly  hands  that 
would  take  him  away,  until  the  doctor,  looking  up  from 
a  hasty  examination  of  the  boy,  caught  sight  of  his 
pallid  countenance  and  said  quickly  : 

"  It  is  only  a  faint.  Squire." 

"You  think  he  will  live?"  gasped  the  white-lipped 
father. 

"Undoubtedly.  He  is  in  no  danger  at  all;  but 
you—  " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  Had  not  a  friendly 
arm  supported  him,  Kortright  would  have  fallen  to  the 
floor.  As  it  was,  he  sank  down  upon  a  chair,  his  teeth 
chattering,  his  white  lips  drawn,  his  face  pinched  and 
wan,  and  his  eyes  Avild  and  unsteady.  The  reac- 
tion had  come.  The  excitement  that  had  enabled  him 
to  forget  pain  and  overcome  weakness  had  departed,  and 
in  its  place  was  an  ague-fit  which  told  that  the  disease, 
which  had  momentarily  relaxed  its  hold,  had  seized  him 
again  with  redoubled  violence.  His  nervous  power, 
which  had  been  strained  to  the  utmost,  had  given  way. 
His  mind  wandered.  The  events  of  the  past  twenty- 
four  hours  were  strangely  mingled  in  his  fevered  fancy, 
and  his  disconnected  words  were  only  half  comprehen- 
sible to  the  listeners  whose  willing  hands  assisted  the 
43 


44  HOT  PL 0  WSUAllE^. 

doctor  ill  the  vigorous  measures  which  he  at  once 
adopted. 

"Marty,  Marty,  my  boy  Marty!"  moaned  the  sick 
man.  " They've  killed  him!  They've  killed  him!  Kid- 
nappers, did  you  say  ?  Kidnappers  !  There  ain't  no 
kidnappers  here.  God  wouldn't  allow  it !  Marty ! 
Marty  !  "VVlioa  !  Why  don't  ye  kill  'em  !  Get  away  ; 
let  me  get  at  'em  !  I'll  kill  'em  !  Let  me  go  ;  they've 
killed  my  boy  !    The  kidnappers  have  killed  my  boy  !" 

Mrs.  Kortright,  who  had  been  utterly  overwhelmed 
by  the  catastrophe  that  had  happened  to  her  son, 
released  the  little  girl  from  her  arms  immediately  on  en- 
tering the  house,  and  then  stood,  weeping  and  wringing 
her  hands,  beside  the  couch  on  which  he  lay.  No 
sooner,  however,  did  she  perceive  the  condition  of  her 
husband,  than  the  instinct  of  the  care-taker  returned. 
Instantly  she  was  at  his  side,  her  perceptions  sharpened 
by  her  love,  the  most  efficient  of  aids  to  the  ijhysician. 
In  less  time  than  it  would  require  to  state  in  detail  what 
was  done,  the  sick  man  had  been  taken  to  his  bed,  a 
vein  in  his  arm  opened,  masses  of  moist  snow  packed 
about  his  head,  his  feet  and  limbs  swathed  in  hot  cloths 
and  chafed  by  strong  and  willing  hands,  and  powerful 
remedies  administered.  Under  this  treatment  his  symp- 
toms rapidly  subsided.  His  mutterings  ceased,  his  eyes 
closed,  the  nervous  twitching  of  the  face  disappeared, 
and  his  breathing  became  regular  and  natural,  in  place 
of  the  stertorous  and  labored  suspirations  of  an  hour 
before.  The  physician  felt  his  pulse  for  the  hun- 
dredth time,  passed  his  hand  over  his  face,  pulled  down 
the  lids  of  one  of  his  eyes  and  then  of  the  other,  peered 
into  the  unseeing  orbs,  and  then  drcAv  a  long  eath  of 
relief. 

"  I  guess  it's  over,"  he  said, 

"You  don't  mean—!"  Mrs.  Kortright  exclaimed  in 
frenzied  tones. 


"FOR    WOUNDS,  BALMy  45 

"I  guess  he'll  pull  through,"  replied  the  physician, 
glancing  keenly  at  her  as  he  spoke,  "but  we  mustn't 
spare  any  exertion  till  the  circulation  is  well  established. 
He's  better,  but  he  needs  care.  Everything  depends 
on  that,  now.  Keep  on  rubbing  him  awhile  longer,  gen- 
tlemen. Are  those  flat-irons  at  his  feet  warm,  Mrs. 
Kortright  ?  Couldn't  you  get  some  more  bottles  of  hot 
water  to  put  about  his  limbs  '?" 

Mrs.  Kortright  became  at  once  the  obedient  and  care- 
ful nurse  again.  She  left  the  room  to  obtain  what  was 
desired.  When  she  had  closed  the  door  the  physician's 
countenance  relaxed. 

"He's  doing  all  right,  gentlemen,  but  it  won't  do  to 
let  her  know  it  just  now.  I've  known  her  all  her  life. 
She's  a  mighty  capable  woman,  no  mistake  about  that ; 
but  this  thing's  been  a  little  too  much,  and  if  she  ain't 
let  down  easy  there'll  be  another  faint  here.  Just  keep 
on  till  I  tell  you  to  stop.  'Twon't  do  any  harm,  and 
will  help  her  to  pull  up  easy.  By  the  way,  I  wonder 
how  the  boy  is  getting  on.  Gad  !  gentlemen,  that  was 
a  plucky  thing,  and  he  had  a  narrow  escape.  I  thought, 
when  I  saw  him  swinging  by  that  brute's  head,  that 
he'd  be  past  my  help  by  this  time.  It  was  the  snow 
that  saved  him — and  his  father,  too,  for  that  matter." 

"This  has  been  a  bad  day  for  the  Squire,"  said  Rit- 
ner,  with  kindly  sympathy. 

"It  might  have  been  worse,"  said  the  physician  seri- 
ously. "  If  he  had  had  to  wait  for  treatment,  he  'd  have 
been  past  help  before  now.  I  tell  you,  gentlemen.  Squire 
Kortright 's  always  been  a  lucky  man — 'specially  since 
he  married  Mattie  Ermendorf— and  his  luck  hasn't  left 
him  to-day." 

The  doctor  had  been  washing  blood-stains  from  his 
hands,  wiping  his  lancet  and  turning  down  his  sleeves 
as  he  spoke.  Mrs.  Kortright  entered  the  room  as  he 
concluded,  with  a  bottle  in  either  hand  wrapped  in  a 


46  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

towel.  There  was  an  anxious  look  in  her  face,  but  the 
strained,  apprehensive  expression  had  disappeared. 

"Can't  you  go  and  see  Martin,  now:"'  she  asked, 
glancing  up  at  the  doctor's  face. 

"Certainl}^  Martha,"  he  answered,  with  the  famili- 
arity of  an  old  friend  ;  "  but  don't  you  have  any  trouble 
about  him.  If  a  boy  ain't  killed  off-hand,  you  needn't 
be  afraid  but  what  he  '11  come  out  all  right.  Young 
bones  are  tough,"  he  added,  in  a  jovial  way.  "Here, 
by  the  way,"  he  continued,  pouring  something  into  a 
glass,  and  adding  a  little  water,  "you  just  take  this.'' 

The  woman  obe3^ed. 

"Now,"  said  he,  taking  her  by  the  arm  and  leading 
her  to  a  large,  old-fashioned  rocking-chair,  "  just  you  sit 
down  there  and  cry.  You  '11  feel  better  then.  These 
gentlemen  will  take  care  of  the  Squire  and  I  '11  look 
after  Martin." 

Mrs.  Kortright  sat  down  with  a  look  of  remonstrance 
in  her  eyes,  from  which  the  tears  were  already  flowing. 
Ashamed  to  display  her  weakness,  she  threw  her  apron 
over  her  head,  and  only  her  con\'ulsive  sobbing  attested 
the  relief  which  the  tears  brought.  The  physician  nod- 
ded approval  and  left  the  room. 

When  they  had  started  for  the  house  with  Martin  and 
his  father,  the  OAvner  of  the  runaway  team — for  it  was 
he  who  had  released  Kortright  and  his  son  from  their 
perilous  position — shook  his  head  to  Shields,  who  seemed 
to  halt  in  regard  to  his  duty,  whether  to  go  with  the 
others  or  stay  with  the  stranger,  and  said,  sharpl}-, 
"You  take  care  of  the  Doctor's  rig,  there,  and  then  go 
into  the  house.  You  may  be  needed.  I  '11  look  after 
these  brutes." 

The  horses  had  risen,  and  now  stood  with  the  melting 
snow  dripping  from  their  steaming  coats,  the  broken 
harness  dangling  around  them,  and  gazed  with  startled 
surprise  at  the  confusion  they  had  caused.   They  had  not 


''FOR    WOUNDS,   BAL3r'  '  47 

yet  recovered  entirely  from  their  fright,  and  the  sight  of 
the  overturned  sleigh  caused  them  to  snort  and  shy  as 
they  sought  to  turn  and  examine  it. 

"Whoa!"  cried  the  master,  as  he  caught  them  both 
by  the  bits  and  gave  them  a  savage  pull  that  brought 
them- to  their  haunches  in  the  deep  snow  where  they 
stood.  "  Whoa !  you  infernal  fools  !  You've  done  enough 
for  to-day.  I  wish  you  and  the  cursed  idiot  who  caused 
all  this  trouble  had  been  dead  before  I  ever  set  eyes  on 
either  of  you.  There  's  been  nothing  but  bad  luck  in  my 
life  ever  since  George  Eighmie  left  me  his  inheritance 
of  folly  and  I  was  dunce  enough  to  accept  it." 

He  jerked  the  horses  savagely  about,  until  the  fear  of 
the  master  overcame  the  fright  under  which  they  had 
been  laboring,  and  they  stood,  trembling  and  apprehen- 
sive, while  he  tied  up  the  broken  harness,  righted  the 
sleigh  and  secured  them  again  in  their  places.  Then  he 
drove  back  along  the  road  by  which  he  had  come,  secured 
the  scattered  robes  and  cushions,  picked  up  his  whip  and 
applied  it  furiously  to  the  horses,  which  he  held  and 
managed  with  the  ease  of  an  accomplished  horseman. 
Arrived  again  at  Kortright's  house,  he  drove  into  the 
yard,  hitched  his  horses  to  a  post  near  where  the  Doc- 
tor's sleigh  was  standing,  carefully  spread  a  buffalo-robe 
upon  each,  did  the  same  with  the  Doctor's  horse,  which 
Shields  had  left  unprotected,  and  then  knocked  at  the 
side  door,  which  opened  into  the  family  room.  His 
knock  was  answered  by  the  little  girl,  who  looked  out 
with  a  blanched  face,  and  eyes  distended  with  horror  at 
the  scenes  she  had  witnessed. 

"Oh  papa,  papa!"  she  cried,  and,  leaping  into  his 
arms,  she  laid  her  head  upon  his  shoulder  and  burst 
into  tears. 

"There,  there,  Hilda  dear,"  he  said,  soothingly,  as 
lie  kissed  her  tear-stained  cheek  and  smoothed  the  dark 


48  HOT  PLO]VSiLiUES. 

curls  that  clustered  about  her  head;  "there,  there, 
don't  cry.     You  didn't  get  hurt,  did  3'ou  ?" 

"Xo,  papa,"  the  child  answered  quickly,  raising  her 
head  and  hushing  her  sobs,  "but  the  poor  httle  boy, 
papa,  do  come  and  do  something  for  him.  I've  done 
all  I  could." 

■^  But  his  parents,  child,  where  are  they  '?" 

"  Oh,  his  papa  was  hurt  just  awful,  and  the  little  boy 
is  hurt,  too,  only  he  won't  say  a  word,  but  just  lies  there 
and  cries  about  his  papa.  Do  come,  papa, ' '  she  continued, 
as  she  slid  to  the  floor  and  drew  him  forward  by  the 
hand,  "  do  come  ;  he  is  a  real  good  little  boy." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  he,  "I  am  afraid  I  should  have 
had  no  little  Hilda  now  if  it  had  not  been  for  his 
bravery." 

The  child  shuddered  and  hid  her  face  against  him. 
The  father  hfted  her  up,  kissed  her  again,  and  passed 
through  the  door, 

Martin  lay  upon  the  lounge  where  he  had  been  placed, 
with  the  cushion  from  the  chair  by  which  his  mother 
had  knelt  the  night  before  beneath  his  head.  The  girl's 
hood  and  rich  furs  were  upon  a  chair  beside  him.  Left 
alone  Avitli  him,  her  childish  instinct  had  led  her  to  seek 
to  comfort  him,  as  soon  as  she  saw  that  he  was  con- 
scious. She  had  accordingly  dried  her  tears,  put  aside 
her  wraps  and  sat  down  by  his  side.  After  a  while 
she  smoothed  the  hair  Isack  from  his  forehead,  wiped 
his  face  with  a  handkerchief,  the  delicate  perfume  of 
which  came  like  a  breath  of  Araby  the  blest  to  the  boy, 
unaccustomed  to  luxury.  Then  she  asked  him  ten- 
derly if  he  was  hurt,  and  Avas  not  deceived  by  his  stout- 
hearted denial.  She  gave  him  water,  inquired  if  she 
should  not  call  his  mother,  and  when  he  refused  to 
allow  her  to  do  so,  had  returned  to  his  side,  weeping 
for  his  pain,  her  soft  caresses  soothing  him  more  than 
she  knew.     The  woman's  admiration  for  courage  had 


''FOR   WOUNDS,  BALMy  49 

already  developed  in  her  little  heart,  and  the  great 
brown  eyes  looked  with  an  awe  born  of  reverent  wor- 
ship upon  the  white  face  that  lay  before  her,  as  im- 
penetrable as  the  sphinx  in  its  resolute  endurance.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life  she  looked  consciously  upon 
a  hero.  The  impress  her  young  mind  received  that  day 
was  one  that  years  could  not  eftace. 

In  every  respect  the  two  children  were  the  opposite 
of  each  other.  The  one,  as  we  have  seen,  was  blue- 
eyed  and  fair,  unused  to  luxury  or  the  display  of  aftec- 
tion — a  tough,  Aviry  lad,  whose  life,  while  without  hard- 
ship, had  been  familiarized  only  with  the  ha.rsh,  every- 
day plainness  of  a  farmer's  home.  He  had  been  loved 
but  never  petted,  save  now  and  then  when  his  mother's 
half-concealed  caresses  had  gladdened  his  heart.  His 
father's  love  he  had  taken  for  granted.  Careful,  grave 
and  undemonstrative,  he  had  never  realized,  until  he 
felt  the  firm  grip  that  dragged  him  from  beneath  the 
horses,  what  intense  love  burned  for  him  in  his  father's 
heart.  His  own  heart  was  very  tender,  and  he  almost 
forgot  his  bruises,  as  he  lay  there  gazing  at  the  beau- 
tifully clad  girl  and  thinking  of  the  father  whose  love 
he  had  just  discovered,  and  whose  condition  he  had 
revived  sufficiently  to  apprehend  before  his  removal 
to  the  other  room.  He  thought  that  he  had  never  seen 
anything  so  beautiful  in  his  life  as  the  brown-skinned, 
dark-eyed  little  girl,  whose  hair  clung  in  abundant  ring- 
lets about  her  head,  as  she  alternately  gazed  out  of  the 
window  at  her  father,  and  bent  over  him  in  sympa- 
thetic sorrow.  Unconsciously  she  did  the  very  best 
thing  that  could  have  been  done  for  her  charge.  She 
told  him  what  her  father  was  doing,  how  he  struck  and 
jerked  the  horses  about  in  anger  at  their  misdeeds  ; 
how  they  reared  and  plunged  and  were  drawn  back  and 
beaten  still  more  severely ;  till  his  mind  was  diverted 


50  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

from  his  own  and  his  father's  woes  to  the  sympathy  of 
a  born  horseman  for  a  fine  animal. 

''  Are  tliey  your  fiither's  horses  V"  he  aslced, 

"  Oil  yes,  indeed,  but  he  will  sell  them  now.  I  know 
he  will.  I  shall  never  ride  after  them  any  more,"  she 
answered,  warmly. 

"  Why  not  ?"  in  surprise. 

"  Because  they  are  so  bad — because  the}^  hurt  j^ou." 

"Pshaw!  That  ain't  nothing.  They  didn't  mean  to 
hurt  me.     They  was  scart ;  that  was  all.'' 

"  Well,  I  don't  want  to  see  them  any  more— the  hate- 
ful, mean  old  things  !" 

"  Your  father  must  be  very  rich  ?"  meditatively. 

"I  don't  know — why  ?" 

" To  have  such  nice  horses.     I  wish  I  had  them." 

"  You  ?    What  for  ?" — in  amazement. 

"To  drive,  of  course." 

"Why,  they  would  kill  you.  I  should  think  you 
would  want  them  killed  too.     I  do." 

"That's  because  you  are  a  girl,"  with  quiet  con- 
tempt, despite  her  beauty. 

"Would  you  really  like  to  have  those  awful,  bad, 
wicked  horses?" 

"  Of  course  I  would.  If  I  Avas  a  little  older,  I  wouldn't 
be  afraid  of  them  any  more  'n  your  father." 

"Well,  you  shall  have  them,"  with  quiet  decision, 
"when  you  get  well  and  have  grown  up.  I'll  ask  my 
papa  to  give  them  to  you.  He  always  does  what  I  want 
him  to." 

"What  is  your — j'our  father's  name?"  He  tried  to 
say  "papa"  as  she  did,  but  could  not,  somehow.  He 
had  never  said  "  papa"  in  his  life.  To  him,  as  to  all  of 
his  class  at  that  time,  his  father  and  mother  were  known 
by  no  other  names.  He  had  read  of  the  other  titles  in 
books,  and  had  thought  them  very  pleasant  words.     He 


''FOR  WOUNDS,  balm:'  di 

had  even   wished  sometimes  that  he  might   use   them 
but  had  never  dared  to  do  so.  '  ' 

"Why,  don't  you  know  my  papa?"  said  the  girl  with 
evident  pride.  "He's  Captain  Hargrove,  and  we  Hve 
at  Sturmhold. " 

The  boy  looked  up  at  her  with  a  sort  of  awe.  He  knew 
the  great  brick  house,  built  on  a  ragged  spur  of  the  upper 
Catskills  that  overlooked  the  valley  for  twenty  miles  up 
and  down,  and,  though  ten  miles  away,  was  only  hidden 
from  view  by  the  wooded  crest  of  a  range  of  hills  that 
•skirted  an  intervening  tributary.  The  owner  of  Sturm- 
hold  was  accounted  fabulously  rich,  but  Avas  thought  bv 
his  country  neighbors  to  be  a  man  whose  past  life  would 
not  bear  scrutiny.  He  had  built  the  house  some  years 
before  lived  lavishly,  it  was  said,  kept  a  large  retinue  of 
colored  servants  and  fished  the  mountain  streams  for 
trout;  but  had  no  relations  with  any  of  his  neighbors 
and  did  not  encourage  any  approaches  on  their  part 

It  must    be  mighty   nice   to  live  in  such  a  grand 
house,"  he  ventured. 

"Oh,  it  is  so  lonesome,"  she  said,  wearily;   "onlv 
when  papa  is  at  home. "  -^  '  j 

"Why,  ain't  your— your  mother  there  ?" 
"My  mamma  is-is-dead,"  said  the  child,  with  sud- 
den moisture  in  her  eyes. 

Martin  would  have  apologized,  if  he  had  known  how 
for  the  painful  reference  he  had  made.  He  had  never 
said  I  beg  your  pardon,"  or  uttered  any  similar  form 
of  pohte  regret  in  his  life.  His  father  had  once  whipped 
him  for  half  an  hour  to  compel  him  to  ask  his  teacher's 
forgiveness  for  some  piece  of  mischief  of  which  she  had 
made  complaint.  He  had  yielded  at  last,  and  repeated 
the  humiliating  ritual  the  next  day,  but  the  words  had 
left  a  bitter  taste  in  his  mouth.  Fortunately,  just  at 
this  time  her  father  knocked  at  the  door,  which  she  ran 
to  open. 


m  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

Captain  Hargrove  came  at  once  upon  his  daughter's 
entreaty  to  the  side  of  the  lounge,  and  said  in  a  softly 
modulated  voice,  while  he  looked  do^^^l  into  Martin's 
eyes  with  thoughtful  keenness  : 

"Are  you  hurt,  my  little  man  ?  I  hope  not,  for  you 
saved  my  little  Hilda's  life,  and  I  should  feel  very  badly 
to  know  that  you  were  injured  in  so  brave  an  act." 

"Oh,  'tain't  nothin',  sir,"  said  the  boy,  his  eyes  fill- 
ing with  tears,  and  his  cheek  flushing,  more  at  the  con- 
trast between  his  own  rough  speech  and  the  evenly- 
spoken,  well-chosen  words  of  the  gentleman,  who  sat 
down  as  he  spoke,  and  taking  his  arm  felt  for  his  pulse 
with  a  hand  as  soft  as  velvet. 

"Where  are  you  hurt,  my  boy?"  he  asked.  "I  am 
not  a  doctor,  but  I  have  had  some  bruises  myself, 
and  seen  smart  of  broken  bones,  first  and  last.  I  hope 
you  have  had  no  such  mishap,  though."  He  spoke 
pleasantly,  and  smoothed  his  long  dark  beard  with  one 
hand  while  he  held  the  boy's  wrist  with  the  other. 

Martin  looked  into  his  deep  dark  eyes  with  wondering 
surprise  not  unmixed  with  admiring  distrust.  He  re- 
membered that  some  people  believed  that  this  white- 
handed  gentleman  had  been  a  pirate  in  his  day.  Some 
even  surmised  that  he  still  made  a  trip,  now  and  then, 
on  a  fast-sailing  sloop  that  had  been  known  to  come 
up  the  Hudson,  take  him  on  board,  and,  spreading  its 
white  wings  till  it  seemed  like  a  great  cloud,  speed 
away  in  silence  to  the  sea  to  return  again  after  many 
months,  and  leave  him — always  after  nightfall,  and  al- 
ways disappearing  again  before  the  morning. 

Captain  Hargrove  skillfully  disarmed  the  boy's  sus- 
picion, which  he  no  doubt  mistook  for  bashfulness,  and 
learned  that  his  left  arm  was  the  chief  seat  of  pain. 
Carefully  examining  this,  he  found  that  one  of  the  l)ones 
below  the  elbow  was  broken.  Taking  a  knife  fi'om  his 
poc-ket— the  boy  noticed  that  it  was  pearl-handled  and 


''FOR    WOUNDS,   balm:'  5^ 

had  many  slender,  bright  blades,  and  wondered  still 
more  at  the  luxury  that  clothed  the  most  ordinary 
things  of  life  with  such  lavish  splendor — he  opened  it 
and  cut  away  the  sleeve  so  as  to  leave  the  arm  bare. 
He  did  this  so  gently  and  deftly  that  the  boy's  conti- 
dence  was  won  without  reserve,  and  he  told  him  of 
every  ache  and  pain  he  had  experienced  since  he  was 
dragged  from  beneath  the  struggling  horses. 

"There  isn't  anything  else  the  matter  with  you,  my 
little  man,"  said  the  stranger  briskly,  "except  bruises, 
wMch  of  course,  must  be  expected  by  any  one  that  un- 
dertakes so  tough  a  job  as  stopping  my  bays  wlien 
they  once  get  away  from  their  driver." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  the  physician 
entered, 

"  Ah,  Captain  Hargrove,"  said  he,  "  this  is  a  bad  day. 
I  hope  your  horses  were  not  hurt." 

"Unfortunately,  no,"  said  Hargrove.  "I  wish  their 
necks  had  been  broken  instead  of  this  brave  boy's  arm, 
— I  do  indeed." 

"What!  his  arm  broken?"  said  the  doctor  in  in- 
credulous surprise.  "That's  a  fact,"  after  a  quick  ex- 
amination of  the  injured  member,  that  brought  a  groan 
from  the  close-pressed  lips  of  the  resolute  lad.  "Well, 
well,  my  son,  this  must  be  looked  after." 

The  fracture  of  the  arm  was  soon  reduced,  the  hand 
and  forearm  bound  so  as  to  prevent  the  dislocation  of 
the  parts,  and  Martin,  relieved  from  pain,  sunk  away 
into  a  quiet  sleep.  Mrs.  Kortright,  her  equanimity  re- 
stored, became  again  the  careful  housewife,  and  took  up 
the  task  of  attending  to  her  two  invalids  v^^itli  her 
wonted  cheerfulness.  It  was  agreed  among  the  neigh- 
bors that  one  should  stay  until  night,  when  the  others 
were  to  send  watchers,  and  the  doctor  consented  to  look 
out  for  a  girl  to  assist  in  the  housework.     At  this  point 


54  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

in  the  discussion,  Captain  Hargrove  advanced,  and  said 
to  Mrs.  Kortriglit : 

"I  beg,  madam,  that  you  will  not  leave  me  out  of  the 
arrangements  made  necessary  by  my  carelessness.  I 
have  a  servant  who  is  a  most  experienced  nurse,  as  well 
as  a  most  capable  manager  of  a  household.  I  insist, 
madam,  on  placing  him  at  your  service.  He  is  entirely 
reliable,  strong  and  untiring." 

"'I  am  much  obliged,"  said  Mrs,  Kortriglit,  "but — " 

"Madam,"  said  he  earnestly,  taking  his  little  girl  by 
the  hand  and  leading  her  forward,  "Madam,  this  is  all 
I  have  to  love  in  the  world.  Your  brave  boy  saved  her 
life.     Have  I  not  a  right  to  testify  my  gratitude  ?" 

Still  the  feeling  of  independence  that  is  innate  with 
the  class  to  which  she  belonged  withheld  the  woman 
from  a  frank  acceptance  of  the  proffered  aid.  Perhaps 
this  feeling  arose  in  part  from  the  manner  in  which  he 
spoke  of  the  one  he  desired  to  send,  as — "a  servant." 
Somehow,  the  word  was  very  rejiulsive  to  the  ears  of  the 
great  masses  of  the  North,  and  every  possible  peri- 
phrasis was  employed  to  avoid  its  use.  Perhaps  it  was 
a  relic  of  the  great  revolt  of  the  Occident  against  the 
Orient  that  separated  the  New  World  from  the  Old  in 
manners  and  customs,  even  farther  than  in  laws  and  in- 
stitutions. 

"Thank  you,"  she  repeated,  "but  the  neighbors — " 

"Beggin'  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Kortriglit,"  interrupted 
Shields,  with  the  incisive  bluntness  that  characterized 
him,  "the  neighbors  'ud  think  you  Ava'an't  fair  to  yer- 
self  or  Captain  Hargrove,  either,  if  j^ou  didn't  let  him 
do  as  he  proposes.  Don't  ye  say  so.  Squire '?"  turning 
to  Eitner,  who  assented  with  a  nod. 

"Besides,"  added  the  doctor,  as  he  stood  with  his 
hand  on  the  latch,  "a  steady,  trained  nurse,  as  Captain 
Hargrove's  man  no  doubt  is,  Avould  be  vastly  better  for 


''FOR    WOUNDS,  balm:'  55 

your  husband  than  the  best  of  watchers,  coming  and 
going  from  day  to  day." 

Mrs.  Kortright  could  not  resist  this  appeal  to  her  love, 
and  she  turned  toward  Hargrove  with  a  gesture  of  as- 
sent. 

"Consider  it  settled,  then,"  said  he.  "I  will  send 
Jason  to-night.  I  must  drive  into  the  village  to  make 
some  inquiries  upon  a  matter  that  caused  my  unfortu- 
nate drive  in  this  direction.  By  the  way,"  he  added, 
turning  to  the  men  who  were  just  passing  out,  "perhaps 
one  of  you  may  be  able  to  give  me  some  information." 

"WeUl  be  glad  to  do  anything  for  you  that  we  can, 
Captain,"  said  Eitner,  politely,  but  not  over-cordially. 
There  was  something  in  the  manner  of  this  man,  frank, 
bold  and  tender  as  he  seemed  to  be,  that  was  so  difter- 
ent  from  the  people  among  whom  he  lived  as  to  awaken 
suspicion  in  their  minds  at  once. 

"Some  time  last  night,"  continued  Hargrove,  "a 
servant  woman  left  my  house,  and  wandered  ofl'  into 
the  storm.  She  had  been  in  my  service  for  a  long  time, 
seemed  perfectly  contented,  and,  indeed,  had  no  reason 
to  be  otherwise.  She  Avas  my  housekeeper,  and  had 
almost  absolute  control.  I  am  afraid  she  must  have 
been  seized  with  a  sudden  hallucination,  and  fleeing 
from  some  imagined  difficulty,  met  with  her  death  in 
the  storm." 

A  knowing  look  passed  around  the  little  circle  as  he 
spoke. 

"Was  she  a  colored  woman  ?"  asked  Ritner,  gravely. 

"Certainly,"  answei-ed  Hargrove,  with  a  smile.  "I 
have  always  been  accustomed  to  colored  servants,  and 
should  hardly  know  how  to  get  along  with  white  ones," 

"Most  likely  not,"  said  Shields,  with  the  trace  of  a 
sneer  in  his  tone. 

Insensibly  the  little  group  had  grown  suddenly  cold. 
Hargrove  and  his  little  girl  stood  in  the  midst  of  them, 


5G  HOT  PL  0  W^^IIARES. 

but  were  not  of  them.  Tlie  northern  jealousy  of  per- 
sonal freedom  built  a  wall  about  the  man  wlio  was 
believed  to  hold  his  servants  in  subjection  by  a  terror 
they  could  not  resist, 

"  I  hope  the  fact  that  she  is  colored  is  no  reason  why 
I  should  not  seek  to  find  and  save  her  from  death,  if 
possible,"  said  Hargrove,  answering  the  tone  rather  than 
the  words. 

".Sartin  not,"  said  Shields,  "if  that's  what  you  want 
to  find  her  for." 

"If!"  said  Hargrove  hotly,  looking  from  one  to  an- 
other, and  for  the  first  time  fully  realizing  the  suspicion 
they  entertained.  "If!  By  Heaven,  gentlemen,  I  am  not 
always  in  a  mood  to  endure  such  imputation ;  but  after 
the  events  of  this  morning,  I  cannot  quarrel  with  you. 
I  suppose  you  think  that  because  I  have  slaves  under 
my  control  in  another  State  I  regard  the  whole  African 
race  as  mine,  'to  have  and  to  hold,'  as  the  lawyers  say  ?" 

"  Wal,"  said  Eitner,  apologetically,  "  the  Free  Soilers 
are  havin'  so  much  to  say  about  slavery,  jest  now,  that 
I  s'pose  we're  gettin'  to  be  a  little  unreasonable  on  the 
subject.  You  mustn't  think  hard  on  us,  Captain,  we 
don't  mean  no  harm." 

"I  do  not  think  you  do,"  answered  Hargrove  earn- 
estly, "and  you  ought  to  know  that  if  I  intended  any 
evil  to  the  girl  I  would  not  ask  such  men  as  you  for  aid." 

"There's  sense  in  that,  certainly,"  said  the  Doctor, 
with  the  instinct  of  his  profession  to  make  matters 
smooth. 

"I  assure  you,"  said  Hargrove,  "that  I  am  more 
anxious  than  I  can  express  in  regard  to  her  safety.  She 
has  been  very  tenderly  raised  and  is  utterly  unfitted  to 
protect  herself  in  such  a  storm." 

"Oh,  there  ain't  no  danger  of  any  one  suffering  in 
so  thickly  settled  a  country  as  this, "  said  Van  "VYormer, 
the  youngest  of  the  neighbors,  who  had  hitherto  taken 


''FOR    WOUNDS,   balm:'  57 

no  part  in  the  conversation.  "She's  all  right.  You'll 
find  her  at  some  neighbor's  house,  probably." 

"That  was  my  opinion,  too,"  said  Hargrove,  "but 
my  servants  and  myself  have  been  visiting  the  houses 
in  every  direction,  since  early  morning,  Avhen  her  absence 
was  discovered,  and  we  find  no  trace  of  her.  I  fear  that 
in  an  insane  apprehension  she  may  have  been  even  afraid 
to  ask  for  aid." 

"  Wal,  wal,"  said  Shields  suspiciously,  "  that's  a  queer 
story." 

"No  doubt  it  seems  so  to  you,"  said  Hargrove  with 
evident  annoyance.  "  She  was  my  housekeeper,  and  I 
should  almost  as  soon  have  expected  my  child  to  run 
away." 

"Perhaps  you  did  not  pay  her  enough,"  suggested 
Van  Wormer. 

"Pay  her?"  ejaculated  Hargrove.  "I  never  thought 
of  such  a  thing.  She  had  only  to  ask  for  money  to  re- 
ceive it.  I  have  often  left  large  sums  in  her  possession 
and  never  thought  of  asking  an  account  of  what  she 
spent." 

"Hain't  you  any  idea  what  made  her  take  such  a 
sudden  start '?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

"My  overseer  arrived  from  the  South  yesterday,"  re- 
sponded Hargrove,  "and  I  think  her  fears,  awakened 
perhaps  by  meddlesome  parties  who  did  not  know  as 
much  as  she  ought  to  have  known,  were  excited  that 
she  might  be  returned  to  slavery.  I  had  kept  the  record 
of  her  manumission  with  my  own  papers,  lest  it  should 
be  lost,  and  she  no  doubt  distrusted  my  intentions." 

" 'T wouldn't  be  onnateral  ef  she  did,"  said  Shields 
grimly. 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Hargrove,  " but  I  never  thought 
of  it.  It  is  hard  to  get  over  the  habit  of  regarding 
one  who  has  been  your  slave  as,  in  a  sense,  still  under 
your  guardianship.     So  I  never  thought  of  handing  her 


58  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

this  bit  of  paper,  wliicli  shows  she  is  as  free  as  you 
or  I." 

He  drew  a  folded  docuiueut  from  his  pocket,  as  lie 
spoke,  and  handed  it  to  Rituer,  who  examined  it  curi- 
ously. 

"Well,  I  can't  say  I  blame  her,"  said  Shields,  squint- 
ing his  eyes  toward  the  document  that  Ritner  held. 
"  Ef  ray  freedom  depended  on  a  bit  of  paper  like  that 
'ar,  and  somebody  else  hed  hold  on't,  an'  kept  holding 
on  to  et,  too,  I  must  say  I  should  be  mighty  apt  to  cut 
out  fur  a  country  that  wasn't  healthy  fur  kidnappers." 

"  Kidnappers  !  What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Hargrove, 
turning  impetuously  upon  him. 

The  hatchet-faced  farmer  did  not  quail  before  the 
flaming  glance  or  clenched  fist  of  the  angry  gentleman. 
His  slender  fingers  worked  nervously,  and  his  gray  eyes 
had  a  dangerous  light  in  them  as  he  said  : 

"  'Tain't  no  use  to  try  any  Southern  swagger  here. 
Captain.  My  words  wa'nt  hard  to  understand,  and  I 
hain't  got  nothing  to  take  back,  neither." 

"There,  there,  gentlemen,"  interposed  the  doctor,  with 
something  of  authority  in  his  tone  ;  "  this  is  not  the  place 
for  any  such  talk  as  that." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,"  said  Hargrove,  turn- 
ing quickly,  and  bowing  deferentially  to  Mrs.  Kortright. 
"With  my  anxiety  about  this  poor  woman  and  the  mis- 
haps I  have  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  bring  upon  this 
household,  I  am  hardly  responsible  for  what  I  do  or  say. 
Come,  Hilda,  let  us  go." 

The  cliild,  who  had  clung  to  her  father's  hand  during 
this  conversation  with  tearful  eyes  and  quivering  lips, 
now  inquired:  "Won't  we  ever  find  my  mammy, 
Papa?" 

"I  will  trj',  my  child,"  answered  Hargrove  huskily. 
"Good  morning,  madam." 

"Mr.  Hargrove,"  said  Mrs.  Kortright,  as  he  moved 


''FOR    WOUNDS,   balm:'  59 

toward  the  door,  "was  the  woman  you  are  hunting  for 
named  Lida  ?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  answered  Hargrove,  turning  eagerly 
toward  her.     "  Do  you  know  anything  of  her,  madam  ?" 

"  Oh  !  have  you  seen  my  mammy  ?  have  you  seen 
my  mammy  ?"  cried  the  httle  girl,  running  to  Mrs. 
Kortright  and  seizing  her  hand.  "Do  please  say  you 
know  where  she  is,  and  that  she  isn't  lost  and  dead 
under  the  cold,  bad  snow."  She  burst  out  sobbing  as 
she  cried  this  and  hid  her  face  in  the  woman's  dress. 

Mrs.  Kortright  fondled  the  child's  head  soothingly, 
as  she  replied : 

"A  woman  who  said  her  name  was  Lida,  that  she 
had  been  livin'  at  Sturmhold,  and  had  run  away  be- 
cause the  kidnappers  were  after  her,  came  to  our  house 
and  asked  for  shelter  and  protection.  She  said  she  was 
'colored,'  but  she  was  just  as  white  as  I  am,  for  all  I 
could  see." 

"  Oh,  that  is  my  mammy  !  I  've  found  my  mammy  !" 
shouted  the  little  girl  in  ecstasy. 

"And  she  is  now — where  ?"  asked  Hargrove,  eagerly. 

"Captain  Hargrove,"  answered  the  farmer's  wife, 
gazing  at  him  keenly,  and  speaking  very  slowly,  "I  do 
not  know  ;  and,  I  will  be  fair  with  you,  I  would  not  tell 
you  if  I  did." 

"You  did  not  turn  her  out  into  the  storm,  I  hope?" 
—angrily. 

"Into  the  storm,  sir!"  said  the  woman,  proudly; 
"nobody  was  ever  refused  food  or  shelter  at  Harrison 
Kortright's  house,  and  never  will  be,  in  fair  weather  or 
foul." 

"Pardon  me,  then  she  is  still  here,  madam?  I  was 
only  anxious  for  her  safety.  If  she  is  safe,  it  is  all  I 
care  for.  I  am  sorry  she  chose  to  leave  us,  but  it  is  her 
undoubted  right  to  do  so." 


60  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

"She  is  safe,"  answered  Mrs.  Kortright,  with  sig- 
nificance. 

"Yon'd  better  be  contented  with  that,  Captain," 
said  Shields.  "  You  can't  git  yer  nigger  back,  an'  'tain't 
no  use  a-tryin'.  When  once  they  git  loose  up  in  this 
country,  up  north  of  here,  there  ain't  no  more  use  of 
follerin'  'em  than  of  huntin'  a  fox  on  skates — not  a 
bit." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Hargrove,  with  lofty  dignity,  "I 
perceive  that  it  is  useless  for  me  to  appeal  to  your  rea- 
son. You  will  persist  in  misinterpreting  my  motives. 
I  am  a  slaveholder  because  the  law  permits  me  to  be. 
The  same  law  gives  a  manumitted  slave  the  right  to  be 
free,  and  I  would  help  to  tar  and  feather  a  kidnapper 
just  as  quick  as  the  hottest  abolitionist  that  ever  howled 
about  what  he  knows  nothing  of.  There  are  reasons 
which  I  cannot  explain  here,  why  I  am  especially  inte- 
rested in  this  woman.  I  would  not  interfere  with  her 
freedom,  however,  for  the  price  of  a  king's  ransom." 

"Captain  Hargrove,"  said  Mrs.  Kortright,  extending 
her  hand  to  him,  "I  believe  every  word  you  say." 

"Thank  you,  madam,"  said  he  with  emotion,  as  he 
clasped  her  hand.  "  You  will  never  regret  your  confi- 
dence in  my  integrity.  You  will  then  inform  me  of  the 
whereabouts  of  this  unfortunate  woman?" 

"I  cannot.  Captain.  I  assure  you  she  is  safe.  My 
husband  took  her  through  the  storm  last  night  to  the 
house  of  a  friend  ;  but  I  can  tell  you  nothing  more  until 
he  is  well  enough  to  permit  of  my  consulting  with  him." 

"You  are  entirely  right  to  act  with  caution,  madam. 
Meantime  may  I  make  you  my  agent  to  transmit  to  her 
this  document,"  said  Hargrove,  taking  the  record  of 
manumission  again  from  his  pocket,  "and  also  this 
money  for  the  supply  of  her  present  needs.  Whenever 
she  may  require  more,  you  have  but  to  inform  me  of  the 
fact,  and  1  will  gladly  supply  any  reasonable  amount." 


''FOR    WOUNDS,  balm:'  61 

The  sum  which  he  laid  in  the  honest  woman's  pahii 
was  such  as  to  cause  her  breath  to  come  quick  with 
amazement. 

''Come,  Hilda,"  said  Hargrove,  cheerfully.  "Good 
morning,  madam.  I  will  send  .Jason  over  as  soon  as  I 
get  home.     Good  morning,  gentlemen." 

Passing  out  of  the  door,  Merwyn  Hargrove  unhitched 
his  horses  and  drove  back  to  Sturmhold,  with  a  look 
upon  his  face  that  showed  how  genuine  had  been  his 
anxiety. 


CHAPTEE   Y. 

"a  defeated  joy." 

The  neighbors  followed  Hargrove  out  of  the  house 
and  stood  peering  at  the  bright  sunshine  from  the  little 
side  porch,  while  the  master  of  Sturmhold  hastily 
stripped  the  robes  from  his  horses,  unhitched  them  from 
the  post,  and,  with  sharp,  stern  words  of  command, 
started  them  upon  their  homeward  way.  The  noon 
sunshine  was  undoing  the  night's  work  with  wonderful 
rapidity.  Bright  streams  trickled  from  the  eaves  of 
every  building.  The  softened  snow  slipped  from  the 
bowed  branches  of  the  trees,  which  leaped  up  to  their  pro- 
per places  with  sharp  sighs  of  relief  from  their  burdens. 
Avalanches  swept  doAvn  the  sloping  roofs.  The  beaten 
paths  yielded  beneath  the  feet  as  if  a  sea  were  hidden 
under  the  dripping  whiteness  that  overspread  the  earth. 
Boreas  declined  the  gage  of  battle  and  left  his  chariot 
to  be  melted  by  the  wrath  of  the  conqueror. 

"Going  fast,"  said  Ritner,  looking  at  the  sun  and  the 
torrents  pouring  from  the  eaves. 

"Which?"  asked  Van  Wormer,  glancing  roguishly 
from  the  eave  spouts  to  Hargrove,  then  just  stepping 
into  his  sleigh. 

"  Wal,  both,"  answered  Ritner,  with  instant  but  sol- 
emn appreciation  of  the  jest. 

"Jest  as  they  come,  too,"  added  Shields,  dryly,  losing 
nothing  of  the  humor  of  his  companions,  but  fitting  his 
own  caustic  wit  to  their  pleasantry,  "without  invitation 
and  for  mighty  little  good." 
62 


"^   DEFEATED  JOY:'  03 

"Queer  that  he  should  have  run  across  the  woman's 
track  right  here,"  said  Van  Wormer, 

"  He  didn't  make  much  off  o'  Martha  Kortright,  any- 
liow,"  said  Sliields. 

"That's  how  the  Squire  got  his  rheumatism  last 
night!"  said  Ritner,  incUning  his  head  knowingly  to- 
ward the  room  they  had  just  left. 

"And  that,"  said  Shields,  nodding  assent  and  raising 
his  finger  for  emphasis,  "  that's  what  made  him  a  Free- 
S'iler  this  morning,  too." 

"Well,  gentlemen,  can  I  take  one  of  you  down  to 
'lection  ?"  asked  the  Doctor,  hriskly,  as  he  passed  them 
on  the  porch  and  began  to  untie  his  horse.  "What  say 
you,  Shields?  I  don't  often  take  a  'Hunker'  to  the 
polls,  but  Ave  couldn't  get  along  without  you." 

A  ripple  of  laughter  greeted  the  Doctor's  joke. 

"  Wal,  no,  thank  you  all  the  same.  Doctor.  1  ain't  a 
bit  proud,  an'  having  come  this  far  with  a  '  Silver-Grey '  " 
— glancing  at  Ritner— "  I  Avouldn't  mind  going  the  rest 
of  the  way  with  a  '  Woolly  Head ;'  but  I  bleeve  I  won't 
vote  to-day.  I  ain't  sure  but  Squire  Kortright  is  about 
right.  Anyhow,  I'll  pair  off  with  him  this  time,  an' 
try  an'  make  up  my  mind  'bout  some  things  that  I  ain't 
exactly  sartain  of  uoav  afore  'lection  time  comes  'round 
agin." 

"So  you're  going  to  let  the  country  go  to  destruction 
without  trying  to  stop  it,"  said  the  Doctor,  as  he  settled 
himself  in  his  cutter  and  took  up  the  reins." 

"Wal,  yes,"  answered  Shields,  deprecatingly.  "1 
know  I  ain't  doin'  right,  an'  it's  my  fault,  too,  but  the 
fact  is,  I  don't  exactly  knoAv  what  I  ought  to  do.  I'm 
at  a  standstill  an'  can't  determine  whether  I  ought  to 
be  for  the  woman  that  run  away  in  the  snow  or  for  the 
man  that  followed  after  in  the  sleigh." 

"That's  my  idea  exactly,"  echoed  liitner  warmly, 
"  and  that's  about  all  there  is  in  our  politics  when  you 


04  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

git  to  the  bottom  on't,  too,"  he  continued  medita- 
tively, "  though  ever3^bod5'  keeps  swearin'  that  politics 
hain't  nothing  to  do  with  Slaveiy  or  Freedom/' 

"Good  Heavens,  Doctor,"  said  Van  Wormer,  "did 
you  ever  see  such  a  nest  of  Abolitionists  ?" 

"Well,"  said  the  Doctor,  cutting  the  snow  with  his 
whip  as  he  spoke,  "  I'm  in  about  the  same  predicament ; 
but  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  run  betwixt  and  between, 
as  we  have  to  do  sometimes  when  we  can't  exactlj^  make 
out  what's  the  matter  with  a  patient.  There  ain't  no 
chance  of  the  Free  Soil  party  winning  this  time,  and 
yet  it  seems  to  me  to  be  bottomed  on  the  right  idea.  So 
I  believe  I'll  give  them  a  vote  this  once,  just  to  encour- 
age them." 

"It  amounts  to  jest  the  same  thing,"  answered 
Shields.  "We  both  own  up  that  we  don't  know  the 
river,  as  we  used  to  say  in  raftin',  an'  so  Ave  give  up  the 
steerin'  oar  to  them  that  thinks  they  do." 

"That's  so,"  said  the  Doctor,  tightening  his  reins. 
"  Well,  won't  either  of  you  go  ?"  looking  at  Van  Wormer 
as  he  spoke. 

"Well,  no,"  said  the  younger  man,  "I  believe  not.  I 
guess  I'll  go  home  with  these  two  '  Barnburners'  and  in- 
troduce them  to  their  families.  They've  changed  so 
since  they  started  out  that  nobod}'  there  would  recog- 
nize them." 

The  Doctor  drove  off  with  a  laugh,  while  the  others 
walked  homewards  over  the  soft  and  splashing  road- 
way they  had  helped  to  make  a  few  hours  before,  more 
thoughtful  if  not  wiser  men. 

As  Kortright  had  predicted,  the  vote  that  day  was  an 
unusually  heavy  one,  though  the  storm  had  extended 
into  several  States,  and  when  the  boxes  were  closed  as 
the  sun  went  down,  "the  man  that  fit  the  Mexicans" 
had  been  "made"  President  of  the  Republic.  For  the 
first  time  in  the  history  of  the  nation  the  lines  between 


"^  DEFEATED  JOY:'  65 

Slavery  and  Freedom  had  been  sharply  drawn,  and 
Lil)erty  had  achieved  its  first  victory,  though  its  advo- 
cates but  little  understood  the  significance  of  that  day's 
work,  and  did  not  realize  until  many  a  day  had  passed 
that  a  defeat  which  mocked  them  with  apparent  hope- 
lessness was  but  the  shadow  of  coming  victory. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE   CLUE   TO  THE   LABYRINTH. 

The  sixteenth  Presidential  election  was  really  a  turn- 
ing point  in  American  history.  For  the  first  time,  the 
Anti-Slavery  sentiment  then  became  an  actual  poAver 
in  American  politics.  The  growth  of  this  principle  and 
the  conflict  between  the  two  opposing  claims  of  right — 
the  right  of  the  Master  to  hold  and  the  right  of  the 
Slave  to  be  free — must  long  remain  the  most  interest- 
ing phase  of  our  history,  as  for  more  than  a  generation 
it  was  the  most  absorbing  question  of  our  national  life. 
So  deftly  was  the  ebb  and  flow  of  this  mighty  thought 
concealed  beneath  the  waves  which  the  gusts  of  party 
passion  stirred  upon  the  surface,  that  many  of  the  most 
prominent  actors  in  our  destiny  little  dreamed  that  they 
were  borne  on  to  victory  by  its  power  or  drawn  doAvn 
to  oblivion  by  its  undertow. 

It  has  been  too  much  the  custom  to  regard  this  great 
'Conflict  of  ideas  as  simply  a  series  of  partisan  successes 
and  defeats.  In  truth,  no  great  principle  ever  gained  a 
foothold  in  the  polity  of  a  republic  so  independently  of  all 
party  influence  and  favor  in  its  growth  and  development 
as  the  movement  in  the  United  States  for  the  abolition  of 
slavery.  For  man}'  years  it  was  outside  of  all  parties, 
yet  underneath  ever}'  political  organization.  It  had  fcAV 
professed  advocates  ;  yet  it  colored  with  its  intensity 
every  public  life.  Long  before  it  had  become  a  recog- 
nized political  poAver  in  the  nation,  it  had  entered 
the  pulpit,  the  home,  the  school,  and  had  stinnilated 
thought  to  a  point  never  before  paralleled  in  history. 
60 


THE   CLUE   TO   THE  LABYRINTH  67 

The  struggle  it  inaugurated  was  pre-eminently  a  con- 
flict of  ideas,  and  the  field  on  which  it  was  fought 
covered  almost  the  entire  domain  of  human  knowledge. 
Every  physical  scientist,  from  Agassiz  down  to  the 
half-taught  quack  of  the  country  cross-roads,  had  an 
opinion  by  which  he  was  ready  to  stand  or  fall  as  to 
the  comparative  capacity  of  the  African  and  Caucasian 
races.  In  defense  of  his  special  theory  was  always  ar- 
rayed his  professional  pride  and  not  seldom  his  profes- 
sional spite. 

The  archaeologist  exhausted  the  lore  of  history,  tra- 
dition and  scientific  guesswork  to  prove  or  disprove 
the  negro's  capacity  for  self-direction  and  self-control. 
The  political  economist  faced  his  fellow-scientist  in  the 
struggle  to  show  that  Cotton  was  King,  and  that  the 
king  could  be  made  regnant  only  by  the  slave's  labor. 
The  theologians  hurled  tomes  of  learning  at  each  other's 
heads,  proving  and  disproving  more  doctrine  from  Scrip- 
ture than  the  most  inspired  of  the  prophets  had  ever 
forecasted. 

Its  growth  was  not  only  extra-political,  but  it  grew  in 
spite  of  parties.  It  is  probable  that  when  the  first 
petition  in  regard  to  slavery  was  presented  in  the 
House  of  Representatives,  the  number  of  people  who 
were  distinctly  opposed  to  it — who  actually  regarded  it 
as  a  wrong  toward  the  slave — was  very  insignificant.  It 
has  been  said  that  there  were  five  thousand  such  in  the 
State  of  Massachusetts,  but  it  is  doubtful  if  there  were 
that  number  in  the  whole  nation.  There  were  many 
who  believed  it  an  evil  to  the  white  race,  and  others 
who  thought  it  only  a  choice  of  evils ;  but  the  number  who 
actually  regarded  the  negro  as  a  man,  entitled  to  all 
the  rights  and  privileges  attaching  to  white  manhood, 
was  excessively  small  during  the  last  quarter  of  the 
eighteenth  and  first  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

Both    parties  shunned    the  mighty  problems    it   in- 


68  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

volved.  Even  the  splendid  powers  of  John  Quincy 
Adams  were  sufficient  only  to  make  the  right  of  pe- 
tition an  uncertain  and  dubious  issue.  The  one  party 
not  only  openly  declared  against  the  assailabihty  of 
slavery,  but  in  the  main,  insisted  that  it  was  the  ne- 
cessary and  normal  condition  of  a  considerable  por- 
tion of  our  population.  To  this  party  the  Anti-Slavery 
movement  was  wrong  in  theory  as  well  as  in  practice. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  opposing  party,  while  deprecat- 
ing slavery  as  an  evil,  deprecated  still  more  all  move- 
ment looking  toward  its  extinction.  The  one  denounced 
the  very  existence  of  the  movement;  the  other  hesi- 
tatingly courted  its  support  and  thought  its  advocates 
unreasonable  when  they  demanded  more  than  bare  tole- 
ration at  its  hands.  The  one  actively  proclaimed  and 
advocated  the  rights  of  the  slave-owners ;  the  other 
mildly  questioned  the  extent  of  them  but  stubbornly 
refused  to  recognize  any  right  attaching  to  the  slave. 
Each  party  fought  the  other  manfully  on  most  questions, 
but  joined  hands  in  putting  down  the  heresy  that  a 
black  skin  ever  afforded  lodgement  for  inalienable  right. 

The  South  was  "solid,"  even  then.  It  had  two  par- 
ties, but  only  one  political  creed.  Each  party  had  a 
"Southern  wing,"  and,  so  far  as  this  question  was  con- 
cerned, they  might  have  swapped  "wings"  and  the  dif- 
ference hardly  have  been  perceptible.  Instead  of  being 
the  creature  of  party  "Abolitionism"  was  the  bete  noire 
of  all  parties.  The  one  declared  that  such  an  idea  was 
treasonable  and  dangerovis  ;  the  other  that  it  was  im- 
practicable and  absurd.  Between  the  two  the  choice 
was  not  great.  The  one  favored  slavery  and  the  other 
would  not  advocate  freedom. 

A  like  anomaly  presented  itself  in  the  church.  One 
ecclesiastical  body  undertook  to  enforce  the  doctrine  of 
its  founder  as  a  vital  element  of  Christian  faith,  and 
was  rent  asunder  in  the  convulsion  that  followed.    Other 


THE   CLUE  TO   THE  LABYRINTH.  69 

bodies  of  a  less  homogeneous  character  displayed  the 
most  amazing  contradictions  of  dogma.  In  the  same 
town,  one  pulpit  thundered  in  behalf  of  slavery  and  an- 
other, of  the  same  faith,  promulgated  the  doctrine  of 
human  liberty  and  equality. 

Commerce,  as  usual,  was  with  the  majority,  and  fa- 
vored the  status  quo.  Cotton  was  King,  on  'Change  at 
least,  and  he  who  spun  and  wove  bowed  obedient  to  its 
mandate.  Trade  seeks  peaceful  highways,  and  the  traf- 
ficker avoids  every  element  of  uncertainty  that  can  be 
eliminated  from  his  estimate  of  the  future.  So  Com- 
merce joined  hands  with  Politics  and  Religion  and  threw 
obstacles  in  the  way  of  the  new  movement. 

Yet  still  it  grew.  There  is  nothing  more  wonderful 
in  history  than  its  growth.  Despite  its  burdens  of  pre- 
dicted disaster,  of  irreligious  tone,  of  commercial  dis- 
trust, of  scientific  absurdity,  of  political  animosity  — 
despite  all  this,  it  grew  like  the  oak  hid  in  the  acorn 
and  pressed  down  by  the  rock — silently,  imperceptibly, 
none  could  guess  in  what  direction,  but  always  toward 
the  light. 

Strangely  enough,  too,  it  grew  in  streaks  and  spots. 
It  did  not  follow  geographical  or  State  lines.  It  took 
root  on  one  side  of  a  mountain  and  never  found  lodge- 
ment on  the  other.  One  bank  of  a  river  was  anti-slavery 
in  sentiment,  while  that  a  bowshot  away  was  bitterly 
hostile  to  the  last.  One  end  of  a  street  was  for  and 
the  other  against  the  dogma.  So,  too,  one  could  judge 
nothing  from  the  antecedents  of  parties  in  regard  to 
their  course  upon  this  question.  The  New  England 
Brahmin  and  the  nameless  shoemaker's  son  struck 
hands  in  advocacy  of  the  doctrine.  Here  would  be  found 
a  community  devoutly  in  earnest  in  the  battle  for  lib- 
erty, while  all  around  it  sneered  at  the  notion  of  right 
attaching  to  ebon-hued  humanity.  The  most  trivial 
incident    turned    men  who   carried  with    them   whole 


70  HOT  PL 0  W SHARES. 

communities.  A  traveler  by  cliance  saw  an  assemblage 
of  men  and  women  refused  admission  to  a  public  hall, 
because  they  proposed  to  discuss  the  doctrine  of  human 
liberty.  He  offered  them  his  house  as  a  refuge  of  free 
thought,  rode  all  night  to  prepare  for  their  coming,  and 
from  that  day  the  voice  and  pen  of  Gerrit  Smith  rested 
not  until  slavery  was  no  more. 

Its  early  advocates  were  men  and  women  of  profound 
convictions.  The  opprobrium  attaching  to  the  name  of 
Abolitionist  had  no  charm  for  the  demagogue.  The 
man  who  declared  his  adhesion  to  the  odious  dogma 
must  needs  have  the  courage  of  his  convictions.  Even 
the  South,  which  honestly  and  naturally  regarded  this 
movement  with  hate  and  horror,  could  not  but  admit 
its  sincerity.  They  accounted  it  fanaticism — cruel,  harsh 
fanaticism — but  they  could  attribute  no  selfish  or  un- 
worthy motives  to  its  advocates.  The  only  approach  to 
such  imputation  was  the  frequent  claim  that  fanaticism 
was  fanned  by  envy — that  the  ease  and  abundance  of 
the  South  stirred  the  envious  hate  of  the  half-starved 
New  Englander.  But  this  was  the  raving  of  ignorance. 
The  truth  is,  that  upon  no  public  question  in  the  world's 
history  have  a  whole  people  ever  been  so  intensely  sin- 
cere in  their  convictions.  Upon  no  other  hypothesis  can 
the  intellectual  phenomena  of  that  day  be  explained. 
Of  course,  both  sides  misunderstood  and  misappreciated 
each  other.  The  Anti-Slavery  leaders  thought,  spoke 
and  wrote  ;  were  beaten,  incarcerated  and  maligned, 
until  they  could  not  conceive  that  those  who  advocated 
the  preservation  and  continuance  of  an  evil  that  grew 
blacker  with  every  ray  of  light  thrown  upon  its  real 
character,  could  be  moved  by  other  than  base  and  self- 
ish considerations.  The  slaveholder,  on  the  other  hand, 
who  looked  upon  slavery  as  upon  any  other  incident 
of  his  accustomed  life,  regarding  it  as  an  institution 
not  altogether  perfect  or  in  all  respects  admirable,  but 


THE   CLUE  TO   THE  LABYRINTH.  71 

infinitely  superior  to  any  condition  of  society  likely  to 
be  formed  of  the  same  elements,  considered  the  mere 
agitation  of  the  question  as  an  unlawful  infringement 
of  his  sacred  right  of  private  property.  To  his  mind, 
the  nation  was  a  simple  confederation  which  he  had 
entered  clothed  with  certain  powers,  among  which  was 
the  right  to  control  and  manage  his  own  property  in 
such  manner  as  he  chose.  This  was  in  his  eyes  a  gua- 
ranty which  all  the  land  had  pledged  its  honor  and 
power  to  sustain.  That  the  slave  had  a  right  that 
might  conflict  with  his  he  did  not  dream.  His  father 
and  his  father's  fathers,  back  to  the  dawn  of  history,  had 
held  slaves  or  been  slaves.  He  was  right,  too.  The 
weight  of  authority  was  with  him.  Leaving  aside  the 
New  Testament,  the  literature  of  personal  liberty  was 
very  light  when  Garrison  dipped  his  pen  in  fire  for  its 
advocacy.  Even  in  this,  the  lesson  of  comfort  given  to 
the  poor  "doulos"  was,  by  interpretation,  made  to  over- 
weigh  the  vision  of  the  "common  and  unclean"  that 
came  to  Peter,  the  declaration  of  Paul  that  the  Chris- 
tian idea  recognized  neither  "bond  nor  free,"  and  the 
whole  lesson  of  the  Master's  life.  The  whole  doc- 
trine was  an  innovation.  One  little  island,  in  its  re- 
bound from  the  pains  of  foreign  thraldom,  had  given  to 
its  soil  the  magic  power  to  dissolve  the  fetters  of  the 
slave  by  instant  contact.  But  even  her  dependencies 
were  yet  ruled  by  the  lash,  and  the  slaves'  labor  yet 
filled  the  coffers  of  her  merchant  princes.  Aye,  it  was 
from  her  that  he  had  received  his  heritage  of  bondsmen 
and  the  right  to  hold  and  use  them  as  he  chose.  Con- 
firmed by  generations,  extending  over  one-third  of  the 
Republic,  and  afiecting  not  only  every  one  who  owned  a 
slave,  but  every  one  who  dwelt  within  the  zone  where 
the  African  race  constituted  a  considerable  proportion 
of  the  population,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  all 
efforts  to  change  this  established  relation  or  interfere 


72  HOT  PLOW.SIIAEES. 

with  the  right  confirmed  by  a  prescription  which  might 
well  defy  the  law's  severest  test,  were  regarded  as  in- 
cendiary, and,  lacking  a  selfish  motive  in  their  promoters, 
were  thought  to  be  inspired  by  a  fanaticism  "moved 
and  instigated  by  the  Devil." 

There  are  some  phases  of  this  struggle  for  Avhich  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  account.  Among  these  was  the 
intensity  of  the  odium  attaching  to  the  advocacy  of 
anti-slavery  principles  at  the  North.  There  was  no  per- 
sonal interest  to  excuse  or  justify  this.  The  mere  vis 
inertia  of  the  public  mind,  Avhich  is  of  course  opposed 
to  change,  is  not  sufficient  to  account  for  its  rancor.  To 
be  an  "  Abolitionist "  was  to  be  regarded  with  distrust 
in  almost  all  localities,  with  clearly-expressed  disfavor 
in  a  majority  of  cases  and  with  absolute  hostihty  in  not 
a  few.  Men  and  women  were  mobbed  in  quiet  country 
towns  hundreds  of  miles  away  from  the  northern  verge 
of  slave  territory,  for  simply  avowing  the  belief  that 
slavery  was  an  unrighteous  and  an  evil  thing  and  should 
be  abolished  at  the  earliest  possible  moment.  This  was 
done,  too,  by  quiet,  earnest,  moral  people,  who  would 
have  looked  with  horror  upon  the  denial  of  the  right  of 
private  opinion  on  any  other  subject. 

As  the  struggle  grew  more  general  it  became  also 
more  bitter.  The  feeling  in  its  favor  grew  stronger  year 
by  year,  its  adversaries  more  numerous  and  the  war  of 
words  more  universal.  Despite  the  protests  and  clamor 
of  parties,  the  question  began  to  color  all  jiolitical  contro- 
versy. Without  ever  having  been  distinctly  recognized, 
it  was  the  underlying  motive  of  almost  every  political 
act.  The  growing  army  of  Abolitionists  was  made  up 
of  men  whose  convictions  made -them  valuable  allies  and 
dangerous  enemies.  They  had  little  regard  for  party 
lines  and  still  less  for  party  platforms.  Their  one  idea 
swallowed  up  all  others.  To  this  they  subordinated  all 
other  political    considerations.      Whatever    moved   the 


THE   CLUE  TO   THE  LABYlUNTir.  7,3 

wheels  of  progress  toward  the  goal  of  lil)erty  by  even  a 
hair's  breadth,  that  they  favored.  Whatever  stood  in 
the  way  of  the  accomplishnieut  of  their  one  desire,  that 
they  hated  and  opposed. 

So  it  was  that  they  formed  strange  alliances.  In  one 
State  they  aided  the  Whigs  and  in  another  the  Demo- 
crats ;  but,  whatever  the  specific  result,  in  all  cases  they 
gained  something  by  the  continuous  discussion  of  the 
question  which  controlled  their  action.  As  a  rule,  the 
Whigs  were  supposed  to  lean  toward  the  party  of  liberty 
and  the  Democrats  to  incline  themselves  toward  the  sup- 
porters of  slavery.  The  official  utterances  of  the  former 
were  intended  to  conciliate  the  Free-Soil  element  with- 
out oflending  any  more  than  was  unavoidable  the  Pro- 
slavery  wing  of  the  party.  The  latter  sought  to  achieve 
success  by  conciliating  the  Slave  Power,  as  it  was  then 
t-alled,  and  stigmatizing  in  the  severest  terms  the  Abo- 
litionists. Yet  in  its  early  struggles  the  Anti-Slavery 
movement  was  very  largely  reinforced  from  Democratic 
ranks,  and  perhaps  the  greater  number  of  its  political 
leaders  came  originally  from  that  party. 

The  great  leaders  of  it  as  a  moral  and  intellectual 
movement— those  who  planned  its  campaigns  among  the 
people  and  fought  its  battles  in  the  forum  of  conscience 
—belonged  to  no  party.  To  them  individual  Hberty 
and  its  proper  guarantees  were  above  all  things  in  im- 
portance. They  had  no  other  aim,  no  ulterior  purpose. 
They  rightly  named  themselves  in  their  first  party  con- 
vention—a weak  and  beggarly  affair  so  far  as  numbers 
or  great  names  were  concerned— the  Liberty  Party. 
One  great  thought  absorbed  them.  Outside  of  this  they 
were  nothing.  Already  their  names  are  falling  into  ob- 
scurity. Their  work  accomplished,  the  world  has  no 
more  use  for  them.  They  are  the  worn  instruments 
which  the  Master  Workman  lays  aside  when  they  have 
served  His  purpose. 


74  HOT  PLOWSUARES. 

To  the  whole  land,  however,  this  struggle  Avas  the 
great  impulse  to  thought.  No  mind  could  slumber  in 
the  fever  heat  it  brought.  Every  soul  was  wrought  up 
to  its  best  and  brightest  in  assault  or  defense.  There 
was  no  middle  ground.  Those  who  stood  by  and  fal- 
tered Avere  ground  to  powder.  The  greatest  was  as  the 
least  before  the  onward  sweeping  avalanche.  One  mo- 
ment's hesitation,  and  the  greatest  of  leaders  was  tram- 
pled in  the  mire.  One  moment's  inspiration,  and  a 
pigmy  was  thrust  over  the  heads  of  all  into  the  leader's 
place.   Men  were  nothing — the  one  great  thought  was  all. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

BETWEEN   THE  PILLARS. 

On  the  day  when  Harrison  Kortright's  friends  stood 
upon  his  porch  and  debated  as  to  their  duty,  tlie  Anti- 
Slavery  movement,  having  cast  oft"  the  fetters  of  pohti- 
cal  thraldom,  had  just  laid  hold  upon  its  first  opportu- 
nity to  make  or  mar — to  lift  up  and  to  cast  down  in  the 
Republic.  Four  years  before,  there  had  been  a  fierce 
struggle  in  the  Democratic  party.  One  of  its  great 
leaders  had  been  thrown  aside  by  a  combination  of 
many  lesser  ones.  For  twenty  years  and  more  Martin 
Van  Buren  had  been  the  strategist  of  his  party.  Its 
victories  had  been  won  under  his  dii'ection,  if  not  through 
his  apparent  leadership.  He  was  to  Jackson  what  Ham- 
ilton was  to  Washington,  and  even  more.  Not  only  had 
his  brain  conceived  the  successes  of  his  party,  but  he 
had  generally  proved  himself  capable  of  warding  off"  the 
perils  resulting  from  the  stupidity  or  stubbornness  of 
others.  Weighted  through  the  entire  period  of  his  own 
administration  with  the  blunders  he  was  powerless  to 
prevent  his  predecessor  from  committing,  (the  resulting 
eft"ects  of  which  were  fully  developed  only  during  his 
own  presidency)  probably  no  candidate  ever  offered  for 
a  re-election  under  equal  disadvantages.  His  defeat 
was  overwhelming,  but  his  management  in  saving  his 
party  from  demoralization  and  dissolution  in  conse- 
quence of  this  defeat  was  most  admirable.  During 
the  four  years  that  followed  this  overthrow  of  the 
Democracy  after  a  brilliant  series  of  uninterrupted 
successes,  it  was  his  masterly  skill  and  unequaled  sa- 
75 


76  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

gacity  that  transformed  the  shattered  and  defeated  mob 
of  1840  into  the  triumphant  host  of  1844.  He  was  the 
head  of  his  party  in  defeat  as  well  as  in  victory.  This 
most  trying  of  all  roles  to  the  partisan  chief  he  filled, 
not  only  with  success,  but  with  a  peculiar  dignity  that 
enabled  him  to  enter  the  next  convention  of  his  party 
with  an  undoubted  majority  at  his  back.  Perhaps  so 
difficult  an  achievemsnt  has  never  been  successfully  per- 
formed by  any  other  American  party  leader.  Its  diffi- 
culty was  greatly  enhanced,  not  only  by  the  fact  that  the 
defeat  came  after  a  political  life  of  unusual  duration 
and  activity,  but  also  by  the  further  fact  that  there 
were  in  the  ranks  of  his  party  a  large  number  of  aspir- 
ing veterans  whose  service  had  been  nearly  equal  to  his 
own  in  length,  and  whose  successes  had  been  only  less 
conspicuous.  To  the  ambition  of  each  of  these  the 
lapse  of  another  quadrenniate  was  fraught  with  danger. 
With  so  astute  a  leader  as  Van  Buren,  the  success  of 
the  party  was  assured.  Their  antagonists,  the  Whigs, 
demoralized  by  the  defection  of  Tyler,  and  weakened 
by  the  rivalry  of  two  great  leaders,  each  of  whom  con- 
sidered the  party  a  simple  machine  for  his  own  per- 
sonal aggrandizement,  were  indeed  rather  to  be  de- 
spised than  feared,  even  with  the  name  of  "Harry  of 
the  West  "  upon  their  banners. 

The  number  and  efficiency  of  the  lieutenants  Van  Bu- 
ren had  attached  to  himself  was  marvelous.  In  his  four 
years  of  retirement  he  had  managed,  none  knew  how,  to 
make  himself  again  the  autocrat  of  his  party  in  his  own 
state  of  New  York.  It  was  not  from  any  fear  of  failure 
under  his  leadership,  therefore,  that  his  name  was  re- 
jected by  the  convention  and  that  of  an  unknown  Ten- 
nessee politician  substituted  in  its  place.  Two  causes 
were  at  work.  Each  of  the  leaders  who  stood  next  him 
in  rank  thought  it  possible  that  such  defeat  might  mean 
his  own  selection.     Having  combined  to  ettect  this  re- 


BETWEEN  THE  PILLARS.  77 

suit,  thoy  found  that  the  defeated  .statesman  had  still 
sutRcient  power  ta-  prevent  any  one  of  them  from  wear- 
ing the  laurels  that  had  been  snatched  from  his  brow 
through  their  conspiracy.  The  best  they  could  do  was 
to  acquiesce  in  the  selection  of  a  man  so  obscure  and 
of  such  conspicuous  weakness  as  to  leave  the  matter  of 
the  succession  open  to  a  free  scramble  four  years  later. 
This  course  suited  well  the  baffled  giant,  who  was  no 
doubt  even  then  meditating  his  revenge. 

The  lot  fell  upon  a  Southern  man,  quiet,  scholarly, 
narrow-minded,  and,  in  all  that  affected  the  South,  a 
bigot  of  the  extremest  type.  Strangely  enough,  he 
lacked  all  the  characteristic  attributes  of  a  Southern 
politician  except  good  family.  He  was  neither  a  bril- 
liant orator,  an  astute  manager,  a  magnetic  personality, 
nor  any  other  thing  that  is  supposed  to  characterize 
the  successful  leader.  He  was  merely  James  K.  Polk, 
of  Tennessee — a  good  enough  man,  a  fair  lawyer,  a 
sound  State-Rights  Democrat,  cold-blooded,  precise, 
suspicious  and  weak — a  man  morally  certain  to  organ- 
ize no  following  that  would  enable  him  to  be  or  to 
name  his  own  successor.  At  the  same  time,  he  was  re- 
garded as  a  docile,  manageable  man,  whose  adminis- 
tration would  probably  be  one  of  those  even,  unmarked 
periods,  not  at  all  dangerous  to  the  success  of  a  party 
whose  strongest  guarantee  of  power  was  its  unswerving 
adhesion  to  the  established  order. 

Probably  no  character  in  our  history  is  so  hard  to 
analyze  as  that  of  Martin  Van  Buren,  The  secret 
of  his  power  seems  to  have  died  with  him.  He  was 
not  renowned  as  an  orator,  and  yet  must  have  pos- 
sessed great  powers  as  an  advocate.  He  is  not  usu- 
ally credited  with  having  devised  any  great  public 
measures,  yet,  during  the  most  important  epoch  of 
his  party's  history,  every  measure  to  which  it  owed 
success  not  only  required    his    approval,  but    showed 


78  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

his  shaping  or  modifying  touch.  He  was  not  eminent 
in  debate,  but  was  always  a  leader  of  his  party  in 
legislation.  He  is  said  to  have  been  personally  calm, 
self-poised  and  unconfiding.  He  heard  every  one's 
opinion,  but  took  no  one's  advice.  He  was  accounted 
shrewd  and  cunning,  but  never  was  accused  of  personal 
treachery.  He  was  cautious  to  the  verge  of  timidity 
and,  at  the  same  time,  confident  to  the  verge  of  rashness. 
He  never  exulted  over  victory  nor  whimpered  at  defeat. 
He  had  few  personal  friends,  but  an  amazing  popular 
following.  In  theory  he  was  the  broadest  of  democrats  ; 
in  practice  the  most  exclusive  of  aristocrats.  Xone  of 
his  associates  seem  to  have  regarded  him  with  affection 
and  few  of  his  opponents  looked  upon  him  with  ani- 
mosity. Perhaps  no  political  life  in  our  history  shows 
so  few  mistakes.  In  no  single  instance  did  he  fail  to 
make  the  best  of  the  occasion,  viewing  it  from  his  own 
standpoint ;  unless  it  were  the  last  and  greatest  of  his 
life — the  opportunity  to  lead  the  movement  that  even- 
tually transformed  the  nation.  He  seems  to  have  had 
all  men's  regard,  but  to  have  given  none  his  trust. 
By  his  opponents  he  Avas  called  cunning ;  by  his  fol- 
lowers sagacious.  More  justly  than  almost  any  other 
politician  he  may  be  said  to  have  achieved  his  own 
successes.  Living,  he  was  the  envy  of  all  who  would 
succeed ;  dead,  he  has  been  the  model  of  unnumbered 
failures.  Few  statesmen  would  covet  his  fame  ;  fewer 
still  do  not  envy  his  success.  He  is  the  Sphinx  of  our 
history — the  hidden  hand  in  many  great  events — a  man 
in  whom  the  elements  were  so  deftly  mixed  that  no 
friend  knew  his  heart  and  no  enemy  ever  came  M'ithin 
his  guard. 

In  that  knowledge  of  the  public  heart  on  which  is 
grounded  the  power  to  forecast  political  events  he  was 
admittedly  unequaled  by  any  man  of  his  day.  Another 
characteristic    also    none    ever    denied    him — the   most 


BETWEEN  THE  PILLARS.  7!) 

unruffled  courage.  His  course  once  fixed  upon,  nothing 
could  swerve  him  from  pursuing  it  to  the  end.  Pubhc 
clamor  or  private  cabal  he  regarded  with  equal  indiffer- 
ence. Friend  or  foe  he  met  with  equal  urbanity.  In 
a  time  when  personal  coUisions  were  frequent  and  fac- 
tional strife  was  hottest,  he  was  on  terms  of  personal 
familiarity  Mith  all.  No  insult  disturbed  his  serenity, 
yet  no  affront  was  ever  forgotten.  He  never  clamored 
for  revenge,  and  never  failed  to  obtain  it.  To  those 
who  aided  his  plans  he  was  a  faithful  ally  ;  to  those  who 
openly  opposed,  a  dangerous  but  yet  pleasing  enemy  ; 
to  those  who  sought  to  undermine  and  betray,  a  power 
that  never  failed  to  countermine  and  crush. 

With  his  great  contemporaries  he  offered  a  strange 
contrast.  While  John  Quincy  Adams  scourged  and 
distrusted  all,  he  spoke  ill  of  none.  To  Jackson,  turbu- 
lent, boisterous,  impulsive,  and  stubborn  rather  than 
determined,  he  was  a  rudder  unseen,  quiet,  often  un- 
shipped, yet  in  the  end  preserving  him  from  the  disaster 
he  invited.  To  Calhoun  he  was  a  calm,  unruffled  mirror, 
in  which  that  clamorous  and  ambitious  controversialist 
read  his  doom  of  defeat  and  mortification.  To  Webster 
and  Clay  he  was  a  fate  that  disarmed  their  eloquence, 
thwarted  their  schemes,  detected  their  ambition  and  de- 
fied their  disappointment.  In  short,  he  is  the  one  man 
in  our  history  who  always  stood  alone  and  yet  for  a 
quarter  of  a  century  was  a  leader  of  the  majority.  He 
was  called  "the  Little  Magician,"  and  the  genius  which 
transformed  the  country  tavern-keeper's  son  into  the 
most  successful  of  party  leaders  justified  the  title. 

In  1844  this  man  met  with  a  disaster  which  he  knew 
was  irretrievable.  His  knowledge  of  public  sentiment, 
wider,  keener,  more  accurate  than  any  other  of  his  day 
possessed,  told  him  that  he  had  no  hope  of  re-estabhsh- 
ing  himself  in  the  seat  of  power.  Age  had  already  left 
its  impress  upon  him,  though  he  was  yet  erect,  his  step 


80  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

elastic,  his  eyes  undimmod  and  his  tones  as  even  and 
decisive  as  ever.  For  ahnost  forty  years  he  had  been 
in  public  life,  filling  perhaps  more  positions  of  honor 
and  trust  and  discharging  more  varied  and  responsitjle 
duties  than  any  other  citizen  of  the  republic  has  been 
called  upon  to  perform.  His  was  that  ripeness  of  know- 
ledge and  intellect  that  is  an  invaluable  adjunct  to 
any  fixed  purpose.  As  a  statesman  he  was  the  best 
trained  of  his  time.  As  a  diplomatist  he  was  unmatched 
at  home  or  abroad.  As  a  politician  he  was  the  envy 
of  friend  and  foe  alike.  This  man,  in  the  ripeness  of 
his  powers,  was  relegated  to  the  private  station  partly 
through  the  envy  of  his  inferiors,  and  partly  through 
the  operation  of  a  cause  that  remains.to  be  traced. 

The  State  of  New  York  was  really  the  theatre  in 
which  the  first  political  battles  of  the  Anti-Slavery  move- 
ment were  fought.  It  is  true  that  Xew  England  has 
generally  claimed  the  leadership  of  this  movement,  as,  in 
a  sense,  she  very  well  deserves  to  do.  But  the  Empire 
State  w^as  that  in  which  it  first  became  an  active  and 
important  political  factor,  and  there,  chiefly  because  of 
its  co-operation  with  different  cabals  in  the  Democratic 
party.  In  that  State  the  old  Republican  party,  and  its 
successor  in  doctrine  and  personnel^  the  Democratic,  was 
not  only  very  strong  from  the  beginning  of  the  cen- 
tury until  the  time  of  which  we  write,  but  the  State  had 
also  produced  a  surprising  number  of  political  leaders  of 
that  faith.  The  success  of  several  of  these  had  been 
such,  not  only  in  the  politics  of  the  State  but  in  the 
councils  of  the  nation,  as  to  inspire  in  them  a  just  and 
reasonable  desire  to  become  the  candidate  of  their  party 
for  the  highest  place.  Each  had  his  particular  follow- 
ers, and  this  struggle  for  the  leadership  of  the  Democracy 
of  the  Empire  State  offered  the  first  practicable  oppor- 
tunity for  the  new  doctrine  to  obtain  lodgment  inside  of 
established  party  lines.      She  gave  it  a  foothold   that 


BETWEEN  THE  PILLAR f!.  ftl 

seems  surprising  when  we  reflect  how  few  outspoken 
advocates  it  had  among  her  recognized  intellectual  lead- 
ers. Already,  in  1.S40,  when  lirst  a  vote  was  cast  for  Anti- 
Slavery  candidates  for  President  and  Vice-President, 
there  Avere  almost  twice  as  many  in  New  York  who  were 
willing  to  accept  the  odium  of  "  AboUtionism"  as  in 
Massachusetts,  and  these  two  States  furnished  more 
than  half  of  the  seven  thousand  votei's  of  the  "Liberty" 
party.  By  1844,  this  number  in  New  York  had  in- 
creased from  three  thousand  to  fifteen  thousand,  still 
leading  Massachusetts  by  fifty  per  cent,  of  its  vote,  and 
furnishing  one-fourth  of  the  entire  following  of  the  new 
party. 

This  was  the  situation  of  affairs  Avhen  Martin  Van 
Buren  received  his  death  blow  as  a  political  leader  in 
the  Democratic  Convention  at  Baltimore.  Samson  was 
shorn  and  blinded.  In  the  silence  of  retirement  he  medi- 
tated his  revenge. 

The  State  of  New  York  has  always  been  noted,  not 
only  for  the  struggle  of  factions  within  the  great  pohti- 
cal  parties,  but  also  for  the  nomenclature  that  has  been 
adopted  to  designate  them.  In  this  respect  it  has  been 
in  striking  contrast  with  the  New  England  States, 
which,  except  in  a  few  instances,  have  hardly  ever  de- 
parted from  the  orthodox  designations  of  the  national 
parties.  Considering  the  general  reputation  for  humor 
which  attaches  to  the  New  England  character  and  the 
contrasted  repute  for  phlegm  which  has  been  attributed 
to  the  citizens  of  the  Empire  State,  this  is  somewhat 
remarkable.  Especially  is  this  true  when  we  consider 
the  grotesque  and  ludicrous  epithets  that  have  prevailed 
in  the  latter  State— " Locofoco, "  "Hunker,"  "Barn- 
burner," "Silver  Grey,"  "Woolly  Heads,"  and  many 
others  of  equal  insignificance  at  the  present  time,  but 
each  constituting  at  the  time  of  its  adoption  a  nick- 
name that  expressed  some  actual  or  supposed  character- 


82  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

istic  of  the  faction  to  which  it  was  appUed.  Some  of 
these  are  said  to  have  been  self-assumed.  Others  were 
adopted  by  the  parties  in  defiance  of  the  ridicule  at- 
tempted to  be  conveyed  l)y  them.  Some,  as  "Locofoco,'' 
spx-ead  beyond  the  boundary  of  the  State  and  became 
accepted  party  designations  in  other  states.  This  one 
is  said  to  have  been  derived  from  the  use  of  matches — 
then  a  luxury  just  beginning  to  be  common  in  the 
land,  displacing  the  ancient  flint  and  steel,  which  was 
not  entirely  dispossessed  until  the  century  had  almost 
reached  its  meridian — and  called  by  their  supposed 
inventor  "Locofocos."  These  matches,  much  more 
strongly  charged  with  sulphur  than  the  modern  match, 
are  said  to  have  played  a  prominent  part  in  one  of  the 
meetings  of  the  faction,  which  thence  took  its  name. 
Another  faction  was  compared  by  a  wit  to  a  farmer 
who  burned  his  barn  to  rid  himself  of  the  rats  who 
devoured  his  grain.  Thence  they  were  termed  there- 
after "Barnburners,"  a  name  which  for  a  time  bade  fair 
to  usurp  the  place  so  long  held  by  that  king  of  denun- 
ciatory epithets,  "Abolitionist."  "Silver  Greys"  aijd 
"Woolly  Heads"  were  epithets  applied  to  Whig  fac- 
tions, corresponding  very  nearty  with  the  "Hunkers" 
and  "Barnburners"  of  the  Democracy,  and  represent- 
ing respectively  the  conservative  and  liberal  elements 
of  the  parties.  In  the  period  between  1844  and  1848 
this  epithetic  warfare  Avas  at  its  height.  The  struggle 
of  factions  seemed  constantly  intensified  during  this 
time  by  some  unseen  power  which  never  rested.  No 
sooner  was  one  breach  healed  than  one  even  more 
dangerous  discovered  itself  The  acknowledged  leaders 
of  the  Democracy  became  mysteriously  estranged.  Ap- 
parently Van  Buren  did  nothing,  but  accepted  as  his 
quietus  the  defeat  he  had  received.  There  were  some 
who  professed  to  see  his  handiwork  in  this  distracted 
and  wari-ing  condition  of  the  Democracv.     Others  saw 


BETWEim  THE  J'fLLAIiS.  83 

in  it  only  the.  lack  of  his  fostering  can'  and  marvel- 
ous tactical  skill.  The  one  counted  it  as  due  to  his 
active  machinations  ;  the  others  attributed  it  solely  to 
his  indifterence.  It  was  tacitly  understood  that  he  no 
longer  felt  himself  bound  to  bear  true  faith  and  allegiance 
to  his  old  party.  During  the  Presidential  campaign  that 
followed  he  remained  loyal  to  his  party  colors,  or  if  he 
did  not  co-operate  in  the  election  of  Polk,  he  at  least 
refrained  from  any  overt  act  that  could  be  accounted 
bad  faith  in  a  defeated  candidate.  That  election,  how- 
ever, loosed  his  bonds.  He  had  been  defeated  by  the 
Southern  wing  of  his  party.  They  had  opposed  him 
solidly,  and,  by  an  alliance  with  the  followers  of  Cass 
and  others  of  less  note,  had  adopted  the  two-thirds 
rule,  which  made  Yan  Buren's  nomination  impossible. 
This  was  charged  upon  Cass  as  an  act  of  bad  faith,  and 
the  events  which  followed  seem  to  sustain  the  imputa- 
tion. 

It  had  been  alleged  against  Van  Buren  that  he  was 
not  true  to  the  South,  and  that  section,  always  jealous 
of  those  whom  it  favored  with  its  support,  under  the 
inspiration  of  some  whose  motive  was  no  doubt  partly 
that  of  revenge,  declared  against  him.  How  far  the 
charge  is  true  it  is  hard  at  this  time  to  determine.  That 
he  was  impelled  by  his  sagacity  to  be  progressive  there 
is  no  doubt.  He  knew  human  nature  well  enough  to 
understand  that  men  could  not  always  be  kept  fighting 
over  and  over  again  the  same  old  battles.  He  kncAV 
that  the  successful  leader  must  always  be  fecund  of 
new  issues.  In  his  own  State  he  had  won  and  held  his 
leadership  by  originating  and  adopting  various  new 
departures.  Upon  assuming  the  presidential  chair  he 
had  at  once  devised  a  ncAV  method  of  evincing  his  sub- 
serviency to  the  slavery  power  by  declaring  in  advance 
his  purpose  to  veto  all  measures  aftecting  that  institu- 
tion in  the  District  of  Columbia.     Excepting  his  oppo- 


84  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

sition  to  Calhoun,  there  is  little  if  anything  in  his  career 
to  justify  the  inference  that  he  was  ever  lukewarm  in 
his  support  of  slavery. 

The  Democratic  Convention  of  1848  was  held  in  May, 
and  Lewis  Cass  was  its  nominee  for  President,  receiving 
the  almost  undivided  support  of  the  Southern  members. 
The  time  was  therefore  ripe  for  his  revenge.  The 
Southern  wing  of  the  Democracy,  which  had  deserted 
from  his  standard,  was  now  united  in  interest  Avith 
Cass  who,  he  claimed,  had  betrayed  him,  while  Marcy 
and  other  great  leaders  of  the  North  felt  in  some  de- 
gree the  sting  that  rankled  in  his  own  breast.  In  Au- 
gust thereafter,  a  "Free  Soil"  Convention  was  held 
at  Buffalo.  It  Avas  the  old  Liberty  party  under  a  new 
name,  and  in  it  was  a  new  element.  Martin  Van  Buren 
was  its  candidate  for  President,  and  Avhen  the  votes 
were  counted,  at  the  close  of  the  day  of  which  we  have 
written,  a  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  of  the  freemen 
of  New  York  stood  where  four  years  before  there  had 
been  but  fifteen  thousand.  Almost  one-half  the  Free 
Soil  strength  was  found  within  her  borders.  Zachary 
Taylor  was  elected  and  Lewis  Cass  defeated  by  thirty- 
six  electoral  votes — the  electoral  votes  of  New  York.  The 
shorn  and  blinded  Samson  had  pulled  down  the  temple 
on  those  who  mocked  at  him. 

Four  years  afterwards,  the  Free  Soil  vote  of  New  York 
had  fallen  back  to  twenty-five  thousand.  By  a  compa- 
rison of  the  votes  of  1844,  1848  and  1852,  it  will  be  seen 
that  in  New  York  Yan  Buren  not  only  received  the  full 
strength  of  the  Free  Soil  vote,  but  also  carried  to  it  fully 
one  Imndred  thousand  votes  from  the  Democratic  j^artij  I 
There  is  little  in  his  previous  or  subsequent  career  to 
justify  the  belief  that  he  accepted  the  principles  of  the 
party  whose  cause  he  apparently  espoused.  Indeed, 
he  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  expressed  approval  of 
them  at  all.      He  merely  engaged  to  carry  them  into 


BETWEEN  THE  I'll. LARS.  85 

effect  if  elected,  which,  as  he  had  no  hope  of  an  elec- 
tion, was  a  promise  cheaply  made.  lie  indulged  in 
some  platitudes  with  regard  to  the  danger  of  Slavery  as 
an  element  of  our  national  life,  which  hardly  any  one 
would  have  presumed  to  question  then,  and  which  he 
lived  to  see  fulfilled  in  a  way  that  astounded  him  so 
greatly  as  almost  conclusively  to  prove  that  his  utter- 
ance of  these  warning  words  was  merely  a  perfunctory 
recognition  of  a  growing  public  sentiment  and  not  a 
positive  conviction.  That  he  secured  the  unhesitating 
support  of  a  party  to  which  he  had  previously  been 
pecuUarly  obnoxious,  and  at  the  same  time,  after  two 
defeats,  carried  so  great  a  portion  of  his  own  party  into 
the  camp  of  their  bitterest  opponents,  without  patro- 
nage, without  hope  of  success,  and  without  faith  in  the 
future  of  the  movement  with  which  he  was  identified,  is 
a  testimony  to  his  power  such  as  few  men  have  ever 
received.  To  have  detected  the  underlying  tendency 
toward  freedom  in  the  hearts  of  his  own  followers  who 
had  hitherto  been  the  professed  allies  of  Slavery,  is  also 
a  proof  of  that  marvelous  sagacity  which  marked  his 
career. 


CHAPTEK  VIII. 

ON   GUARD, 

Mrs.  Kortright  was  not  long  left  alone  with  her 
two  invalids.  The  wives  of  the  neighbors,  who  had  un- 
expectedly returned  home  at  midday,  no  sooner  heard 
the  story  of  the  strange  happenings  at  Paradise  Bay, 
than  they  were  clamorous  in  their  reproaches  of  the 
carelessness  manifested  by  their  respective  husbands  in 
leaving  the  good  woman  to  care  for  her  sick  ones,  even 
for  an  hour.  The  snow  had  hardly  time  to  melt  under 
the  feet  of  the  sympathetic  dames  on  their  way  to  sup- 
ply their  husbands'  delinquencies.  The  story  spread 
thi'ough  the  neighborhood,  and  from  every  one  came 
offers  of  assistance.  Willing  hands  and  kindly  hearts 
crowded  to  the  house  of  pain,  with  that  earnest  alacrity 
that  prevails  where  men  are  not  so  thickly  crowded  to- 
gether as  to  care  nothing  for  the  well-being  of  those 
that  live  beyond  the  barrier  of  a  party-wall.  At  that 
time,  our  American  life  had  not  become  so  distraught 
with  the  events  of  the  world  outside  as  to  forget  the 
duties  of  good  neighborship.  The  lightning  which 
brought  "the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth"  to  our 
doors,  also  put  far  away  from  us  the  joys  and  sorrows 
of  the  vicinage.  The  world's  life  conies  into  our  hearts 
with  the  morning  sunlight.  We  know  the  woes  of 
India  and  feel  the  throbbing  of  the  great  guns  that 
pour  their  iron  wrath  upon  Alexandria.  We  know 
how  all  the  peoples  of  the  earth  are  faring,  almost 
hour  by  hour.  From  Irkutsk  to  Zululand,  not  a  heart 
bleeds  or  a  frame  sutlers  with  heat  or  cold,  famine  or 


ON  GUARD.  87 

pestilence,  but  we  know  its  ill  before  the  going  down  of 
the  sun.  Our  sympathy  reaches  out  and  gathers  in  the 
whole  world.  "Who  is  my  neighbor?"  is  no  longer  a 
conundrum.  Our  charity  embraces  the  world,  and 
humanity  is  the  boundary  of  duty.  Yet  the  old-fash- 
ioned neighborhood  is  no  more.  Beyond  the  threshold 
of  the  front  door,  all  the  world  is  alike  to  us.  Printing- 
press  and  telegraph  and  telephone — steam  and  light- 
ning— have  annihilated  time  and  space.  To  be  face  to 
face  is  naught ;  to  be  eye  to  eye  is  a  useless  luxury. 
The  world's  heart-beat  comes  through  the  ear  or  pulses 
along  the  printed  page.  Contiguity  is  nothing.  The 
street  puts  asunder  as  far  as  the  sea.  San  Francisco  is 
nearer  to  [N^ew  York  than  the  hill-top  and  the  valley 
were  when  Martin  Kortright,  bruised  and  sore  from 
crown  to  sole,  lay  moaning  in  his  troubled  sleep  and 
dreaming  of  the  enchanted  castle,  ten  miles  away  from 
the  house  which  could  never  more  prison  his  life  within 
its  walls.  His  banner-tree  from  far  Japan  had  made 
him  a  true  knight-errant  from  the  hour  when  he  had 
borne  it  so  gallantly  to  his  first  joust  with  evil-working 
force — the  griffin  that  sought  him  in  the  hour  of  his 
self-abnegating  watch. 

In  that  day,  the  meanest  dweller  in  the  Valley  could 
not  feel  the  touch  of  sickness  without  knowing  the 
ministry  of  willing  hands  and  the  cheer  of  kindly  faces 
and  hopeful  tones  from  those  who  honored  the  then  unfor- 
gotten  name  of  neighbor.  When  Martin  awoke,  there- 
fore, he  found  the  house  full  of  friends.  There  was  a 
superfluity  of  care.  Many  hands  made  light  the  house- 
hold work.  He  was  urged  to  eat  and  sleep,  to  keep 
silent,  and  to  talk  of  the  day's  adventures,  almost  at  the 
same  time.  His  lounge  was  transfoi'med  into  a  bed  by 
being  turned  front  to  the  wall  and  piled  high  with  downy 
feather  beds  and  swelling  pillows — the  store  of  provident 
generations  of  exemplary  housekeepers.     All  was  bustle 


88  HOT  PLOWSHAliES. 

and  confusion  in  the  living-room  where  the  bruised  boy 
lay,  but  at  the  door  which  led  to  his  father's  room  the 
kingdom  of  silence  began.  There  none  entered  but 
his  mother,  to  whom  the  restful  gloom  was  a  needed 
refuge,  and  the  nurse  who  had  quietly  installed  himself 
in  charge.  Xow  and  then  there  appeared  at  the  door 
a  dark  face,  and  a  tall  form  came  forth  with  noiseless 
steps,  the  appearance  of  whom  at  once  hushed  the  chat- 
ter of  the  neighbor  women,  who  did  nothing  but  watch 
his  movements  until  he  returned  to  his  duties  at  the 
Squire's  bedside.  This  was  Unthank,  the  butler  or 
"head-man"  of  the  servant  household  of  Sturmhold. 
Captain  Hargrove  had  not  exaggerated  his  capacity  as  a 
nurse,  and  his  efficiency  on  this  occasion  was  greatly 
enhanced  by  the  fact  of  his  color. 

Though  hardly  a  generation  had  passed  since  the  abo- 
lition of  slavery  in  the  state,  the  number  of  blacks  was 
so  few  in  many  of  the  rural  districts  that  they  were 
looked  upon,  especially  after  the  anti-slavery  crusade 
was  well  under  way,  with  a  strange  mixture  of  pity 
and  dread.  The  quick  imagination  clothed  every  dusky 
face  with  the  romance  of  oppression  and  suffering.  To 
have  been  a  slave  was  to  be  a  hero.  To  the  wide  eyes  of 
the  neighbor  women,  well-read  in  the  literature  that  was 
already  becoming  a  part  of  the  daily  food  of  the  North- 
ern mind,  Unthank — who  had  been  a  slave  and  might 
be  a  slave  again  for  aught  they  knew — was  the  imper- 
sonation of  the  woes  and  wrongs  of  all  his  race.  His 
kindly,  dark  brown  face  was  to  them  a  mask  behind 
which  all  the  evils  of  slavery  were  hidden.  A  scar 
upon  the  temporal  angle  of  his  broad  brow,  a  slight 
limp  in  his  gait,  were  to  their  teeming  fancies  texts 
from  which  a  woeful  history  was  woven.  The  careful 
quiet  of  his  movement,  the  lightness  of  his  slippered 
footfall,  the  noiseless  opening  and  shutting  of  the  door, 
his  softly  modulated  tones  that  seemed  to  die  away  as 


ON  GUARD.  89 

soon  as  they  had  passed  his  lips,  the  instinctive  order- 
ing of  every  breath  and  movement  to  meet  the  need 
and  comfort  of  another  —  all  these  were  evidence  to 
these  watchful  eyes  of  the  servitude  which  had  warped 
his  nature  and  made  him  as  different  from  them  in 
character  as  in  appearance.  Then,  too,  his  language, 
though  not  the  broad  dialect  of  the  plantation,  was 
unmistakably  Southern,  and  had  a  charm  for  their  un- 
accustomed ears  which,  indeed,  no  familiarity  can  de- 
stroy. So  they  answered  his  inquiries  nervously  and 
hurriedly,  shrunk  from  the  accidental  touch  of  his 
hand  with  a  shiver  which  brought  with  it  a  blush  of 
shame,  watched  him  wonderingly,  but  kept  away  from 
his  peculiar  domain — the  bedside  of  the  sick  man. 

The  Doctor  came  again  toward  night,  nodded  ap- 
proval of  what  had  been  done,  left  new  directions 
and  more  medicine,  cautioned  Mrs.  Kortright  to  take 
abundant  rest,  and  went  away  promising  to  come  early 
in  the  morning.  For  the  boy  he  predicted  swift  recov- 
ery ;  of  the  flither  he  said  little.  A  daughter  of  one  of 
the  neighbors  had  consented  to  come  and  "do  the  house 
work"  as  long  as  her  assistance  should  be  required. 
A  neighbor  volunteered  to  look  after  the  stock  until  a 
man  could  be  hired.  So  the  struggle  with  disease  began. 
The  lad  recovered  speedily.  Young  flesh  soon  forgets 
its  bruises.  The  sudden  snow  had  hardly  time  to  flee 
away  before  he  had  left  his  improvised  couch  and  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  stained  whiteness  here  and  there  in 
sheltered  nooks.  The  broken  arm  had  hardly  time  to 
lose  the  charm  of  oddity  before  he  almost  forgot  its 
existence.  He  was  kept  a  prisoner  still,  but  a  most 
unwilling  one.  With  the  master  of  Paradise  Bay,  the 
case  was  different.  His  room  was  kept  dark  and  silent. 
The  nurse  passed  noiselessly  in  and  out.  Low  moans 
were  sometimes  heard  within.  The  Doctor  came  and 
went,  till  he  grew  to  be  an  accustomed  presence.     The 


90  HOT  PL  0 WISHARES. 

neighbors  gathered  and  in  hushed  tones  inquired  of  tlie 
sick  man's  condition.  Mrs,  Kortriglit  grew  pale  and 
anxious-looking.  The  spring  sunshine  had  started  the 
sap  in  the  maples  on  the  hillsides  before  the  doubtful 
issue  was  decided. 

A  Aveek  after  "the  great  snow-storm"  the  Indian 
sunnner  had  resumed  its  interrupted  sway.  Unprece- 
dented mildness  folloAved  the  sudden  irruption  of  win- 
ter, but  the  gloom  that  pervaded  the  household  was 
beginning  to  tell  upon  the  spirits  of  Martin  Kortriglit. 
He  began  to  grow  peevish  and  discontented.  His 
mother's  preoccupied  anxiety  was  a  serious  deprivation 
to  him.  He  had  been  her  pet  in  a  quiet  way.  Now  she 
seemed  almost  to  have  forgotten  him,  or  remembered 
him  only  to  weep  over  him.  Harrison  Kortright  had 
not  been  a  demonstrative  man  in  his  household,  but  he 
had  l)een  its  head  in  a  most  emphatic  sense.  He  had 
ruled  it  not  by  conscious  assertion  but  with  unconscious 
power.  Theoretically,  his  wife  had  sometimes  differed 
from  him  ;  practically,  she  would  as  soon  have  thought 
of  attempting  to  live  without  air  as  of  failing  to  antici- 
pate his  wishes.  He  was  the  king  of  Paradise  Bay,  not 
because  he  wished  to  rule,  but  because  he  was  one  of 
those  men  who  cannot  help  ruling.  He  had  impressed 
himself  upon  the  house,  the  farm  buildings,  every  rood 
of  land  and  every  rod  of  fence  and  wall.  To  take  him 
out  of  its  life  was  to  remove  not  the  steersman  but  tlie 
rudder.  The  boy  felt  this  all  the  more  keenly  because 
of  his  own  weakness.  It  hung  about  his  spirit  like  a 
niglitmare.  He  forgot  his  joys  and  anticipated  only 
sorrow. 

One  morning  he  was  gazing  out  of  the  window  in  this 
mood  of  restless  discontent,  when  all  at  once  his  pale 
face  lighted  up  and  he  forgot  his  troubles  as  he  cried 
out  to  his  mother,  who  chanced  to  be  preparing  some- 
thing at  the  stove  : 


ON  GUARD.  91 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother,  here  they  are  again  !" 

"You  don't  say!"  she  said,  catcliing  liis  tone — glad 
in  spite  of  her  sorrow  for  the  joy  it  betrayed — "  and  who 
might 'they'  be  ?" 

"Why,  the  Captain— Captain  Hargrove  and — and  the 
little  girl  and— and  the  horses,''^  responded  Martin,  with 
an  admiring  stress  upon  the  last  words,  which  showed 
unmistakably  that  the  prancing  bays,  whose  glistening 
coats  gave  no  hint  of  the  rough  usage  of  a  week  before, 
eclipsed  in  importance  to  his  mind  the  other  personages 
he  named. 

His  eyes  danced  with  joy  as  he  stood  gazing  at  them 
and  the  carriage  which,  though  by  no  means  magnifi- 
cent, seemed  to  him  the  very  perfection  of  luxury.  It 
was  only  a  double-seated  phaeton  with  the  top  thrown 
back,  light  and  bright  save  where  some  splashes  of  the 
autumn  mud  attested  a  sharp  drive  over  the  country 
roads.  On  the  front  seat  was  a  colored  driver,  while 
the  owner  and  his  daughter  sat  behind  wrapped  in 
robes;  for  the  weather,  though  bright,  was  bracing  at 
that  hour.  The  Captain  smoked  a  cigar.  The  driver 
wore  gloves.  The  harness  was  richly  mounted  with  sil- 
ver. So  intent  had  the  boy  been  in  observing  these  things 
that  he  hardly  had  noticed  Hargrove  spring  out,  throw 
away  his  cigar  and  come  quickly  along  the  porch,  until 
he  heard  a  light  knock  at  the  door  and  saw  his  mother 
hasten  to  open  it,  somewhat  flushed,  wiping  her  hands 
upon  her  apron  and  giving  a  hasty  touch  to  her  hair, 
with  the  feminine  instinct  of  making  herself  presentable, 
on  the  way  between  the  stove  and  the  doorway. 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Kortright,"  said  the  visitor, 
removing  his  hat,  bowing  and  speaking  in  low  tones 
which  of  themselves  expressed  sympathy  and  conside- 
ration.    "  How  are  all  this  morning  ?" 

The  emphasis  implied  that  •  he  knew  how  they  were 
yesterday,  and  brought  to  the  hearers'  minds  the  fact 


92  HOT  PLOWiSUAUES. 

that  every  day  since  the  accident  a  messenger  had  come 
from  Sturmhold  to  make  this  inquiry  on  his  behalf. 

"About  the  same,  Mr.  Hargrove,"  answered  the 
comely  matron,  who  still  felt  somewhat  abashed  in  the 
presence  of  this  man,  who  seemed  to  belong  to  a  sphere 
of  life  with  which  she  was  unfamiliar.  She  was  not  at 
all  oppressed  with  any  sense  of  inferiority,  but  only  em- 
barrassed by  the  ease  of  his  address.  "  Won't  you  come 
in  ?"  she  added,  as  she  threw  open  the  door  and  stepped 
backward  to  bring  a  chair. 

"Ah,  here  is  our  little  hero,"  said  Hargrove,  as  he 
entered.  "  How  is  he  ?  I  am  glad  to  see  him  up,  at  all 
events." 

The  boy  hung  back  at  first  bashfully,  but  there  was  no 
resisting  the  dark-bearded  stranger,  who  took  him  by 
the  hand,  spoke  so  pleasantly  and  had  such  a  charm  of 
mystery  about  him.  He  drew  the  boy  toward  him  as 
he  sat  down  and  kept  holding  his  hand  afterward. 
Martin  noticed  the  contrast  between  his  own  hand,  even 
after  a  week's  sickness,  and  the  soft,  firm  palm  in  which 
it  rested.  There  was  nothing  efteminate  about  the  man, 
whom  he  watched  furtively  as  he  stood  beside  him.  He 
had  heard  during  the  days  he  had  been  confined  to  the 
house  astounding  stories  of  his  strength.  It  was  said 
by  the  neighbors,  who  witnessed  the  rescue  of  father 
and  son,  that  he  had  thrown  the  horses  right  and  left 
as  if  they  had  been  sheep,  instead  of  the  finest  span  of 
high-bred  roadsters  within  a  circle  of  fifty  miles  at 
least.  So  the  whiteness  of  his  hand  was  all  the  more 
amazing  to  the  boy,  who  contrasted  with  it  his  brown 
fingers  with  their  irregular  and  grimy  nails. 

"I  am  afraid  he  is  not  much  of  a  hero  to-day,"  said 
Mrs.  Kortright,  reproachfully.  "He  has  been  fretting 
and  teasing  ever  since  he  woke  up." 

"Just  what  I   expected,   and    that  is  why  I  drove 


ON  aUAUD.  93 

around  this  way,"  said  the  Captain.  "Wouldn't  you 
like  to  take  a  ride,  George  '?" 

"His  name  is  Mai'tin,"  said  the  mother. 

"  Martin,  eh  ?  That's  a  good  name,  but  it  should  be 
George — after  Saint  George  of  England." 

"I  had  rather  be  named  after  George  "Washington," 
said  the  boy  sturdily. 

"  St.  George  of  America,  eh  ?  Well,  either  one.  They 
Avere  both  born  knights,  and  need  not  be  ashamed  to  give 
their  names  to  a  boy  who  does  what  you  did." 

"]^ow,  now.  Mister  Hargrove,  don't,"  said  Mrs.  Kort- 
right  deprecatingly.  "  I'm  afraid  they're  going  to  spoil 
the  boy  with  praise." 

"  Do  not  fear,  Madame.  Praise  that  is  honestly  earned 
is  not  apt  to  do  harm." 

He  touched,  as  he  spoke,  the  gray  end  of  the  fingers 
that  peeped  above  the  wrappings  of  the  splinted  arm. 
His  look  was  reverent,  and  his  touch  was  a  caress.  The 
mother  was  moved  by  his  earnestness,  and  said,  apolo- 
getically : 

"You  don't  know,  sir,  how  much  has  been  said  about 
it.     I  am  afraid  it  will  make  him  vain." 

"!N^ot  as  vain  as  you  are  of  him,"  said  Hargrove, 
glancing  archly  up  at  her. 

"I?"  she  asked  blushing,  but  now  quite  at  her  ease. 

"Yes,  you.  But  what  about  the  ride?  Would  you 
like  it,  George — Martin,  I  mean  ?" 

"  Oh,  mother,  may  1  ?"  he  asked  in  pleading  tones,  see- 
ing her  look  of  dissent. 

"  Keally,  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  thinking  of  it, 
but  "— 

"  Madame,"  said  he  earnestly,  "  please  do  not  make  me 
feel  that  I  can  do  nothing  but  harm  in  the  world  !"  His 
face  grew  sad  as  he  spoke,  and  Mrs.  Kortright  hastened 
to  say : 

"Indeed,  sir,  you  have  been  very  kind.     I  am  sure 


94  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

nobody  could  have  done  so  well  as  your— your  man, 
Unthank.  If— if,  when  he  gets  well"— nodding  toward 
the  sick  room,  while  the  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes — "he 
will  tell  you  how  grateful  we  all  are  for  your  kindness." 

"Do  not  say  so,  Madame,"  Hargrove  answered  hus- 
kily, rising  to  his  feet  to  conceal  his  emotion.  "  But  let 
me  take  this  boy  for  an  airing.  It  would  give  my  little 
girl  great  pleasure." 

The  mother  could  not  resist  this  earnest  appeal. 
Martin  was  soon  ready  and  took  his  first  taste  of  lux- 
ury, as  he  reclined  against  the  strong  man's  breast 
upon  the  back  seat,  the  dark-eyed  Hilda  sitting  face 
toward  him  on  the  front  one,  and  was  bowled  along 
over  the  undulating  roads  by  the  horses,  whose  very 
hoof-beats  were  music  to  his  ears.  The  bright  sky,  the 
soft  swinging  carriage,  the  even-voiced,  black-bearded 
man  of  mystery,  the  balmy  air,  the  autumn  colors 
mixed  with  the  dark  hemlocks  on  the  hillsides — all  made 
it  the  perfection  of  bliss  to  the  convalescent  boy.  He 
wondered  if  Elijah  was  happier  in  the  Chariot  of  Fire. 

When  they  returned,  the  Doctor  was  at  Paradise  Bay, 
and  added  his  approval,  almost  his  command,  to  Har- 
grove's request  that  he  might  take  the  boy  for  a  time  to 
Sturmhold.  The  mother,  with  much  doubt  as  to  what 
"Father"  would  say,  finally  consented,  and  after  din- 
ner Martin  was  whirled  away  again,  the  first  time  he 
had  ever  left  father  and  mother  for  a  night.  The  day's 
excitement  had  been  rather  too  much  for  his  weakened 
frame,  and  his  mother's  kiss  was  hardly  dry  upon  his 
cheek  before,  lulled  by  the  easy  motion  of  the  carriage, 
he  fell  asleep  in  the  arms  of  his  strange  new  friend. 
When  he  awoke  it  was  in  wonderland. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

HARGROVE'S    QUARTER. 

Merwyn  Hargrove  was  of  a  notable  if  not  famous 
ancestry.  His  father,  St.  John  Hargrove,  was  one  of 
the  most  deserving  oflflcers  of  the  infant  navy  of  our 
young  republic.  His  family  was  of  the  old  colonial 
day,  and  their  plantation,  bordering  on  one  of  the 
sounds  that  indent  the  Southern  coast,  had  long  been 
noted  for  the  hospitality  and  sturdiness  of  successive 
generations  of  the  rugged  English  stock  who  had  become 
possessors  of  many  a  square  mile  of  alternate  swamp 
and  intervening  level,  long  before  the  third  George  had 
trouble  with  his  Occidental  dependencies. 

On  the  bank  of  a  beautiful  inland  lake,  and  within 
bow-shot  of  one  of  those  deep  and  narrow  streams  that 
lazily  wind  in  and  out  among  the  gray-bearded  trees 
that  line  its  banks,  and  loiter  about  the  arching  roots 
of  the  surrounding  cypresses  as  if  they  had  forgotten 
which  way  they  should  run,  stood  the  old  family  man- 
sion. Twenty  miles  away,  across  a  shallow  bay,  and 
beyond  a  low  range  of  hills  through  which  a  narrow 
channel,  known  as  Hargrove's  Inlet,  gave  a  dangerous 
passage  in  and  out,  the  Atlantic  showed  a  long,  low 
Kne  of  lazily-bursting  waves  in  fair  weather,  and  in 
storm  a  mile  in  width  of  yeasty  billows  that  left  stretches 
of  bare  sand  between  pursuer  and  pursued,  as  they 
chased  each  other  inward  toward  the  line  of  shifting 
hills  which  the  ocean's  wrath  had  piled  up  to  defeat 
its  progress.  The  Sound— a  river  balked  of  its  will  and 
spreading  itself  up  and  down  the  coast  for  half  a  hun- 
95 


96  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

dred  miles  in  search  of  an  outlet — was  barely  a  mile 
away.  The  water  of  the  lake  and  of  the  shallow  wells 
dug  here  and  there  upon  the  plantation,  was  sweet, 
though  not  without  a  yellowish  tinge  and  a  flavor  that 
spoke  of  the  swamp  and  the  cypress.  The  land  was 
of  astonishing  fertility,  a  black,  loamy  sand,  lying  just 
above  the  water  level,  full  of  peaty  fibre  which  burned 
like  punk  if  it  happened  to  take  fire  in  the  dry  summer 
time,  and  told  the  story  of  its  creation  as  plainly  as  if 
written  with  a  pen.  Out  of  the  marshy  shore  the  sea 
had  builded  its  own  barriers.  The  sandy,  undulating 
ridges  had  once  been  barren  hills  like  those  that 
stretched  along  the  shore  beyond.  The  reedy  levels 
had  been  transformed  to  rich  alluvial  beds.  The  pris- 
oned river  had  thrust  itself  "between  the  ridges  in  search 
of  an  outlet.  The  tributary  streams  had  followed  the 
same  windings.  The  swamp  had  come  and  fenced  the 
waters  from  the  land  with  its  clinging  growth.  Then  it 
caught  the  sands  with  its  rootlets ;  balked  the  winds 
with  its  yielding  branches ;  crowded  back  the  sea  and 
staked  off  the  channels  of  the  rivers.  With  the  water 
in  the  estuaries  it  fought  a  constant  warfare  until  deep, 
dark  channels  only  were  left  to  them.  "What  the  sea 
threw  up  in  scorn  the  earth  received  gladly  and  trans- 
formed into  an  impassable  bulwark  against  the  assault 
of  her  enemy. 

Here,  early  in  the  history  of  our  country,  one  Dobson 
Hargrove  had  fixed  his  habitation,  which,  after  the 
fashion  of  that  region,  was  thenceforth  known  as  "Har- 
grove's Quarter"  ;  none  knew  by  Avhat  right,  and  he  did 
not  care.  It  was  vaguely  understood  that  "sixty-nine 
miles  wide  from  sea  to  sea  "  had  been  given  to  one  of 
England's  nobles  under  the  broad  seal  of  the  realm,  to 
hold  forever,  subject  only  to  a  yearly  tribute  of  "  twelve 
ears  of  Indian  corn  and  twelve  choice  beaver  skins  for 
the  royal  robes."    This  principality  unquestionably  in- 


HARGROVE'S  QUARTER.  97 

eluded  the  tract  on  which  the  original  Hargrove  first 
made  settlement.  But  there  were  fcAv  at  that  time  to  re- 
port the  trespass,  and  fewer  still  who  cared  whether  the 
King's  favorite  or  the  King's  5'eoman  enjoyed  the  soil. 

So,  year  after  year,  the  occupancy  of  Hargrove  ex- 
tended. Despite  its  beauty  and  the  fertility  of  the 
soil,  the  situation  was  not  one  to  attract  neighbors. 
It  was  a  minutely  divided  delta.  Between  swamps 
and  channels  and  estuaries,  where  the  balked  tide  rose 
and  fell  almost  imperceptibly,  lay  arable  levels  of  sand 
and  peat  which  had  once  been  the  bottoms  of  lagoons. 
Here  and  there  a  little  bank  of  crumbling,  sand-mixed 
clay  showed  above  the  level — the  foundation  of  some 
old-time  bar,  behind  the  shelter  of  which  the  waves  had 
deposited  the  sandy  tribute  of  ages.  The  cypress  and 
the  water  oaks  held  the  swamps  and  borders  of  the  chan- 
nels. The  pines  grew  dense  and  close  above  the  sandy 
reaches  that  lay  between.  Some  scrubby  oaks  and  dog- 
woods crowned  the  rare  banks  of  clay.  The  channels 
were  many  and  devious ;  the  sandy  reaches  narrow. 
The  corn  was  gathered  with  batteaux.  Broad  ditches 
joined  the  inlets  and  made  the  roadways  of  the  Quarter. 

The  log  house  which  Hargrove  built  commanded  the 
little  lake  which  was  the  key  to  the  situation.  The 
trough  in  which  it  lay  had  been  burned  out  by  fire,  and 
the  clayey  filter  through  which  its  waters  came  kept 
them  sweet  and  fresh.  Year  after  year,  the  squatter 
"  took  in"  more  and  more  of  the  pine  levels,  and  by 
implication  extended  his  sway  over  the  swamps  and 
estuaries  that  intervened.  A  few  cattle  occupied  an 
enormous  range.  He  waged  war  on  the  wild  beasts 
that  disputed  his  dominion,  and  the  barriers  he  built 
against  them,  in  time,  were  transformed  into  muniments 
of  title  which  the  lord  of  the  manor  himself  could  not 
overthrow. 

This  sturdy  English   settler    could  not  have  helped 


98  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

being  a  fisherman  and  a  hunter.  On  the  point  which 
jutted  into  the  sound,  at  the  mouth  of  the  narrow  river 
that  ran  by  the  Quarter,  had  been  an  Indian  fishing 
camp  of  much  repute  among  the  aborigines.  Indeed, 
for  almost  a  hundred  years  after  the  first  Hargrove 
settled  at  the  Quarter,  they  were  wont  to  come,  even 
from  the  mountains,  two  hundred  miles  to  the  west- 
ward, in  the  season  when  the  shad  and  herring  ran,  to 
catch  and  dry  their  stores  and  market  the  winter's 
peltry.  The  woods  were  as  full  of  game  as  the  waters 
of  fish,  and  the  settler  was  too  wise  a  man  to  waste  his 
time  in  cultivating  a  soil  that  supplied  nearly  all  his 
wants  without  labor.  The  little  that  he  grew  was  for 
luxury  rather  than  need.  It  was  only  when  he  became 
the  owner  of  slaves  that  the  hunter-fisherman  was  trans- 
formed into  a  planter. 

Little  by  little  the  dug-out  in  which  he  had  been  wont 
to  visit  the  settlements  up  the  river  and  along  the  coast 
grew  into  a  more  pretentious  craft.  A  clumsy  shallop 
took  its  place,  and  this  in  turn  gave  way  to  a  sloop  not 
overly  trim  in  her  rig  but  whose  lines  displayed  the  skill 
of  her  northern  builder,  and  whose  performances,  both 
on  the  doubtful  waters  of  the  sound  and  in  the  roughest 
seas  outside  the  bar,  soon  made  her  master's  name  justly 
famous  in  the  coastwise  traffic  of  the  day.  Before  the 
third  generation  had  been  gathered  to  their  fathers 
"Hargrove's  Quarter"  had  become  a  busy  hive.  The 
owner's  one  sloop  had  increased  to  a  little  fleet  that  plied 
back  and  forth  between  the  AVest  Indies  and  the  settle- 
ments of  all  the  Southern  colonies — sometimes  engaged 
in  legitimate  traffic,  but  more  frequently  setting  at  defi- 
ance the  laws  of  the  realm.  Then  it  was  that  they  be- 
came not  only  navigators  but  cultivators,  too.  Slaves 
were  cheap  in  the  Indies,  often  indeed  a  drug  in  the  mar- 
ket, and  the  shrewd  Carolinian  not  only  found  his  advan- 
tage in  introducing  the  new  laborers  upon  the  mainland. 


HARGROVE' 8  QUARTER.  99 

but  thereby  also  secured  an  abundant  supply  for  himself. 
The  Quarter  became   a  barracoon  which   supplied  the 
planters  who  dwelt  along  the  river  above.      Overseers 
and  drivers  and  an  array  of  subordinates,  who  did  his 
will  ashore  and  afloat,  gathered  about  the  occupant  of 
the  Quarter,  so  that  when  the  lord  of  the  manor  sent 
the  king's  officers  to  dispossess  the  intruder,  to  spoil  his 
improvements  and  to  tear  down  the  house  he  was  build- 
ing of  bricks  brought  from  France  by  way  of  Martinique, 
they  found  a  host  ready  to  oppose  them,  and  came  away 
the  worse  for  the  affray  they  had  provoked.     The  bucca- 
neer planter  was  ready  to  hold  by  force  what  he  had 
taken  without  leave.      Then  the  powers  that  were  be- 
came his  enemies.     For  a  time  he  even  was  an  outlaw 
by  formal  proclamation  of  the  judges  of  the  assize,  held 
far  enough  away  to  be  safe  from  his  reprisals— though 
it  is  reported  that  once,  in  a  jolly  mood,  he  found  two  of 
the  king's  judges  crossing  the  sound,  and  compelled  them 
and  their  attendants,  the  peripatetic  barristers  of  that 
day,  willy-nilly  to  come  aboard  his  sloop,  brought  them 
to  the  Quarter,  and  kept  them  for  a  week's  carouse,  dur- 
ing which  the  rum  of  St.  Croix  flowed  by  the  tierce  and 
the  wine  of  Madeira  by  the  tun.  At  the  end  of  that  time, 
his  sloop  took  them  by  night  to  the  town  where  they 
should   have    entered    an   appearance    a  week    before, 
and  they  were  left  asleep  upon  the  porch  of  the  Ordinary, 
to  awake  in  the  morning  dazed  with  their  long  debauch, 
afraid  and  ashamed  to  confess  their  delinquency,  and  so 
unable  to  account  for  their  absence.      This  very  delay 
was  afterwards  solemnly  recounted  as  one  of  the  griev- 
ances which  the  colonists  averred  that  they  had  suffered 
at  the  hands  of  the  king's  servants.     Tales  of  wrecks 
and  spoils  are  told  to  this  day  of  the  owner  of  Hargrove's 
Quarter.     It  was  believed  that  sometimes  on  the  Span- 
ish Main  his  vessels  carried  the  black  flag.    A  strange, 
rough  company  gathered  around  him.     Half  the  popu- 


100  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

lation  of  two  or  three  neighboring  towns  were  really  his 
retainers.  Every  squatter  in  the  piney-woods  was  a  spy 
in  his  pay  and  interest.  Xo  bailiff  could  come  nigh 
by  land  or  water  without  warning  being  given  of  his 
approach.  When  he  went  into  the  towns  he  had  a  fol- 
lowing about  him  tliat  forbade  his  arrest.  "Hargrove 
of  Hargrove's  Quarter"  would  probably  have  been 
hanged  at  the  yard-arm  of  some  one  of  Her  Majesty's 
men-of-war,  had  not  the  opportunity  occurred  for  him  to 
exchange  the  role  of  a  buccaneer  for  that  of  the  patriot. 

That  the  Hargroves  grew  rich  goes  without  saying. 
Every  time  that  one  of  their  staunch  little  coasters  drove 
her  smutty  nose  through  the  chopping  waves  of  the  tor- 
tuous inlet  that  made  through  sand-hills  and  surf  just 
below  the  long,  low  cape  that  masked  the  entrance,  and 
was  warped  to  her  hidden  berth  in  the  narrow  river 
that  flowed  by  the  "  Quarter,"  it  brought  new  stores  of 
wealth.  They  were  not  merchants,  yet  they  bought 
and  sold  for  half  the  planters  round  about.  The  rivers 
and  the  sounds  were  then  the  sole  highways  between 
these  low-lying  principalities.  The  dug-out  and  the  bat- 
teau  brought  produce  and  took  aM^ay  merchandise  to  the 
"  up-country."  Even  the  sea  was  in  league  with  them. 
If  argosies  foundered  upon  the  coast,  the  best  of  all  the 
waves  cast  up  found  its  way  to  their  storehouses.  Strange 
stories  are  yet  told  in  the  cabins  of  the  "  sand-hill- 
ers"  and  "hog-hunters"  in  the  piney-woods,  of  a  horse 
that  was  trained  to  bear  a  lantern  up  and  down  the 
rolling  dunes  that  formed  the  cape,  when  the  storm 
drove  to  the  northwestward,  to  lure  passing  ships  upon 
the  breakers.  Perhaps  men  whispered  it  to  each  other 
at  that  time,  but  they  said  nothing  about  it  to  the  mas- 
ter of  Hargrove's  Quarter.  Some  may  have  disapproved 
his  methods  but  few  hesitated  to  profit  by  them.  If 
the  wine  he  sold  was  rich  and  old,  they  asked  not  how 
it  came  into  his  possession.    If  tea  was  cheaper  on  the 


HARGROVE'S  QUARTER.  101 

inland  river  bank  than  in  the  harbor  of  Charleston,  they 
did  not  discuss  the  cause.  If  his  rum  and  molasses 
were  of  the  best  quality,  they  did  not  ask  to  see  his 
invoices. 

The  Quarter  grew  populous,  but  it  was  all  the  pro- 
perty of  the  master.  He  built  no  docks  ;  he  invited 
neither  partnership  nor  competition.  The  cypress-lined 
river  still  hid  his  craft,  which  rarely  came  or  went  by 
day,  and  only  stayed  to  discharge  and  receive  their  car- 
goes. They  belonged,  nominally,  to  other  ports.  They 
traded  between  city  and  city.  They  were  simple  coasters 
beyond  the  bar.  They  ran  in  and  out  without  making 
any  entry  in  the  log  of  the  variation  from  the  accus- 
tomed track.  It  was  an  easy  thing.  There  were  few 
to  watch  and  few  to  go  astray  in  those  days.  The 
wind's  wings  were  the  swiftest  messengers  then  known 
upon  the  earth.  Twenty  miles  to  the  westward,  the 
highway  from  the  South  to  the  already  more  boisterous 
and  adventurous  North  crossed  the  river,  whose  swollen 
surface  made  the  sound.  Couriers  sometimes  came  ex- 
press to  Hargrove's  Quarter  by  that  route,  taking  boat 
at  the  town.  Gentlemen  left  their  carriages  sometimes, 
and  came  in  the  same  way  to  enjoy  his  hospitality.  The 
little  lake  lay  in  the  heart  of  a  wondrously  fertile  plan- 
tation now.  Road  there  was  none  leading  into  this 
checkered  domain.  The  driver's  horn  mustered  slaves 
by  the  hundred  when  he  wound  it  at  daylight.  There 
was  hunting  and  fishing  and  lavish  hospitality. 

Yet,  despite  their  power,  the  Hargroves  were  not  on 
terms  of  familiarity  with  the  planter  aristocracy  whose 
residences  dotted  the  river  banks  above,  though  not  one 
in  twenty  of  them  could  show  a  tithe  of  his  substance. 
After  a  while,  there  came  a  time  when  this  fact  galled 
the  hereditary  prince  of  the  "  Quarter."  He  determined 
to  conquer  his  neighbors  as  his  ancestors  had  conquered 
the   obstacles  that  beset  them.     So  his  only  son  was 


102  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

educated  to  be  a  gentleman.  He  was  sent  to  travel 
through  New  England.  He  made  the  voyage  to  Europe. 
The  revenues  of  the  Quarter  were  placed  at  his  dis- 
posal. His  lavish  hand  and  cultivated  manner  obtained 
him  entrance  to  homes  and  hearts.  The  semi-feudal 
aristocracy  of  Virginia  received  him.  He  became  fa- 
miliar with  that  strange  group  of  democratic  exclusives, 
whose  burning  eloquence  held  the  Southern  settlements 
to  a  movement  utterly  inconsistent  with  their  develop- 
ment, but  which  grew  as  naturally  out  of  the  animating 
impulse  of  the  Northern  colonies  as  the  flower  comes 
from  the  bud.  Away  from  his  home,  the  young  Har- 
grove was  welcomed  by  the  best  and  esteemed  of  all. 
At  home  he  was  only  the  heir  of  the  Quarter — the  son 
of  old  Nathaniel  Hargrove,  the  hard-working,  hard- 
drinking,  hard-headed  master  of  princely  revenues,  but 
of  ill  repute. 

From  his  son  the  father  caught  the  fever  of  the  time. 
The  thought  that  was  working  like  yeast  in  the  hearts 
of  the  colonists  just  suited  his  adventurous  spirit.  To 
defy  power  of  any  sort  was  to  him  a  luxury.  All  at 
once  he  became  a  leader.  When  a  meeting  was  held  a 
hundred  miles  away  to  consider  what  the  grievances  of 
the  people  were,  and  what  remedies  ought  to  be  adopted, 
he  summoned  his  henchmen  and  appeared  upon  the  day 
appointed  at  the  head  of  a  following  so  considerable 
that  the  officers  who  were  commissioned  to  disperse 
the  assembly  counted  it  the  part  of  prudence  not  to 
interfere. 

AVhen  the  Congress  met  in  Philadelphia,  one  of  his 
sloops  was  lying  in  the  Delaware,  and  when  the  Decla- 
ration was  signed,  his  son  sent  him  word  by  sea  and 
Jeft'erson  sent  couriei's  by  land  to  announce  the  great 
event.  From  that  hour  Hargrove's  Quarter  lost  its  evil 
name.  Patriotism  sanctified  both  its  surroundings  and 
its  antecedents.     Interest  and  inclination   ran  hand  in 


HARGROVE'S  QUARTER.  103 

hand.  Successful  rebellion  meant  to  the  Hargroves  se- 
curity of  title  and  undoubted  position.  The  best  fami- 
lies of  the  colony  were  nearly  all  rebels,  many  from 
motives  hardly  less  questionable  than  his.  They  were 
all  outlaws  together,  and  he  was  most  esteemed  who 
could  do  most  to  promote  the  common  unlawful  end. 
The  practical  sagacity  and  boldness  of  the  master  of  the 
Quarter  made  him  a  leader  in  their  counsels.  The  son 
trod  the  quarter-deck  of  a  letter  of  marque.  The  change 
was  more  apparent  than  real.  What  the  rakish  coaster 
was  reputed  to  have  done  before  the  privateer  now  did 
openly.  There  were  many  adventures  both  by  sea  and 
land.  The  son  was  captured  and  confined  in  the  prison- 
ship  at  New  York.  One  privateer  was  cast  upon  the 
beach  as  she  sought  to  make  the  inlet  heavily  laden  with 
spoils.  Tarleton  burned  the  Quarter.  The  slaves  died 
by  the  score  of  a  strange  sickness  that  broke  out  among 
them.  Yet  Nathaniel  Hargrove  never  faltered.  He  gave 
as  long  as  he  had.  Then  he  pledged  his  credit,  which  was 
almost  unlimited.  The  new  government's  promises  to 
pay  were  never  dishonored  by  his  non-acceptance. 
Robert  Morris  wrote  him  a  letter  of  thanks  for  his 
sturdy  co-operation  with  him  in  maintaining  the  sinking 
credit  of  the  infant  nation. 

When  the  war  ended,  he  had  great  store  of  Continental 
currency,  a  good  title  to  the  lands  he  had  held  before  by 
suflerance,  a  burden  of  debt,  and  unbounded  faith.  Pa- 
triotism had  not  paid  so  well  as  his  old  trade,  but  he 
was  not  discouraged.  He  began  at  once  to  rebuild  the 
Quarter.  He  bought  new  ships  and  began  to  trade 
again  with  the  Indies.  His  son  had  won  fame  and  died 
in  the  prison-hulks.  His  grandson,  though  only  a  lad 
of  fourteen,  had  been  with  Paul  Jones  on  the  Bon 
Homrtic  Bichard  and  shared  his  captain's  gloiy.  For  a 
time  it  seemed  as  if  he  would  rehabilitate  his  shaken 
fortunes.     The  new  States  were  not  swift  to  ofter  reme- 


104  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

dies  to  the  creditors.  Nathaniel  Hargrove  shirked 
nothing.  He  beUeved  in  the  dingy  paper  piled  up  in 
boxes,  and  barrels  even,  in  the  rude  cabin  that  served 
hina  for  an  office.  When  it  finally  became  worthless  by 
express  repudiation,  his  hope  failed  and  his  heart  broke. 
He  died,  leaving  the  Quarter  to  his  grandson,  greatly 
reduced  in  acreage  and  sadly  encumbered  with  honest 
debt. 

St.  John  Hargrove,  when  he  thus  became  the  heir  of 
the  shattered  fortunes  of  his  family,  had  just  donned 
the  uniform  of  the  navy  of  the  young  republic.  His 
pay  was  meagre,  but  the  prospect  of  glory  was  bright. 
Already  another  war  was  imminent.  He  left  the  Quar- 
ter in  charge  of  an  agent  to  redeem  itself  Wlien  he 
was  thirty-five,  he  had  seen  service  in  every  sea,  risen  to 
a  captaincy,  married  a  young  wife  in  a  Northern  city, 
and  sailed  away  to  return  no  more.  A  year  afterward, 
when  the  widow  went  South  to  take  possession  of  her 
dower  in  the  Quarter,  she  bore  a  son  in  her  arms  whom 
she  had  christened  Merwyn,  after  his  uncle  who  had 
died  in  the  prison-ship  during  the  war  for  libert}^ 

Chastine  Elverson  was  a  Quaker  orphan  of  small  es- 
tate and  of  a  soft  and  tender  beauty,  when  she  left  the 
Meeting  to  marry  that  son  of  Belial,  St.  John  Hargrove, 
the  red-handed  officer  of  a  man-of-war  and  reputed 
owner  of  vast  estates  and  countless  hosts  of  slaves  in 
one  of  the  Southern  States.  Perhaps  her  husband  knew 
nothing  of  this  magnifying  of  the  Southron  into  a  na- 
bob, which  has  always  been  characteristic  of  the  North, 
and  which  led  her  almost  unconsciously  to  suppose  her- 
self the  Mife  of  a  magnate  rather  than  a  poor  officer  whose 
fortune  was  his  sword.  Perhaps  he  hesitated  to  disturb 
her  silly  dream.  At  all  events,  he  did  not  undeceive 
her.  It  is  true  he  did  tell  her  he  had  no  living  rela- 
tives ;  that  the  old  plantation  was  terribly  run  down, 
and  that  he  had  not  seen  it  in  ten  years.     What  he  did 


HARGROVE' ti  QUARThJR.  105 

not  tell  her  was  that  he  had  pinched  and  saved  all  he 
could  from  his  pay  as  a  naval  officer  to  discharge  the  in- 
terest on  the  mortgage  that  hung  over  it.  So  the  young 
widow  was  greatly  disappointed  when  she  came  to  view 
the  place  her  fancy  had  pictured  as  the  seat  of  a  luxuiy 
such  as  the  bleak  North  could  hardly  match.  The  agent 
who  had  lived  at  the  Quarter  had  done  little  else.  The 
incumbrances  that  overhung  the  estate  had  grown 
greater  rather  than  less.  Her  own  little  dowry  and  the 
modest  pension  allowed  her  would  do  little  toward  dis- 
charging the  debts  that  rested  on  it,  but  to  this  task  she 
addressed  herself  with  the  utmost  devotion,  for  her  son's 
sake.  She  had  the  shrewdness  and  self-reliance  of  her 
sect  and  people,  and  saw  in  the  Quarter  possibilities 
which  its  founder  had  not  discovered. 

Colonel  Peter  Eighmie,  who  owned  a  plantation  a 
little  up  the  river,  heard  of  this  Quixotic  resolution  of 
the  fair  young  widow,  and,  after  many  sneers  at  her 
folly,  concluded  to  gp  and  give  her  his  advice,  or,  as  he 
phrased  it,  "  send  her  back  to  her  people,  where  she  be- 
longed." In  pursuance  of  this  resolution,  he  had  him- 
self conveyed  to  the  Quarter,  and  fomid  the  lady  he  sought 
supervising  some  repairs  she  was  having  made  in  order 
to  render  habitable  for  herself  and  immediate  family  a 
part  of  the  unfinished  mansion  the  old  patriot  had  be- 
gun. The  Colonel  was  past  forty,  long  a  wadower  and 
childless.  The  widow  was  twenty-four,  and  very  fair. 
The  Colonel's  mission  was  one  of  pure  charity.  He  had 
never  seen  his  new  neighbor,  and  only  thought  of  her  as 
a  young  woman  who  was  going  to  do  a  foolish  thing. 
It  was  not  the  claim  of  a  vain,  boasting  plantation  life 
to  be  called  patriarchal.  The  man  who  for  years  had 
swayed  the  destinies  and  cared  for  the  woes  and  ills  of 
scores  of  human  beings,  became  accustomed  to  looking 
after  all  his  vicinage  as  a  matter  of  course.  It  never  oc- 
ourred  to  this  plantation  king  that  there  could  be  any 


lUG  IIUT  PLOM'SHARES. 

impropriety  in  the  step  he  Avas  taking,  nor  did  he  dream 
that  the  foohsh  woman  would  for  a  moment  think  of  re- 
jecting his  counsel.  He  went  to  scold  her  as  he  would  a 
wayward  daughter,  and  expected  her  to  obey  with  equal 
readiness.  Yet  as  he  came  briskly  up  from  the  old  neg- 
lected landing,  and  saw  her  standing  in  the  soft  autumn 
sunshine  directing  the  workmen  with  a  quiet  resolution 
in  her  young  face,  he  was  smitten  with  unconscious  re- 
spect for  the  fair  dunce  he  had  come  to  reprove.  He 
advanced,  however,  and  addressed  her  courteously,  in- 
troducing himself  by  name. 

"Ah,  then  you  are  my  neighbor,  though  you  do  live 
miles  away  ?  I  am  so  glad,  for  it  is  getting  to  be  lonely 
already,  though  the  people  on  the  plantation  have  been 
very  kind,"  was  her  reply  to  his  greeting. 

"You  do  mean  to  live  here,  then?"  The  Colonel 
drew  down  liis  heavy  brows  and  bent  his  deep  gray  eyes 
upon  her,  as  though  she  had  committed  a  deadly  sin  by 
thus  presuming  to  contravene  his  wijl  even  before  know- 
ledge of  its  terror. 

"Oh,  yes,"  nervously; _" I  hope  to  get  it  habitable 
before  spring." 

"You've  plenty  of  money,  I  suppose." 

"Oh,  dear,  no.  Just  enough  to  fix  up  a  little  and 
furnish  supplies  for  the  next  year." 

"  You've  got  niggers,  and  stock,  and  boats,  and  all 
that's  needed  for  a  plantation  that  hasn't  fed  its  hands, 
or  hardly  more,  in  tAventy  years  ?" 

"'Bless  me,  no  sir;  but  a  friend  in  Philadelphia  has 
agreed  to  advance  me  something  on  the  crop,  and  I  hope 
to  get  through  somehow." 

"Yes — 5''es,"  sententiously.  "So  you  will — soniehoir. 
Do  3^ou  know,  Madame,  that  this  plantation  can't  be 
made  to  bread  the  hands  necessary  to  work  it  for  the 
next  five  years  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  don't  mean  it !"  she  said  starting  and  look- 


ILUiUltOVE'H  qUARTER.  1U7 

ing  acrof's  the  lake,  incredulously,  yet  not  without  per- 
turbation.    "  Surely,  it  cannot  be  true." 

"Cannot,  eh?  Madame,  will  you  please  to  make  in- 
quiries as  to  Colonel  Eighmie's  character  for  truth  ?  And 
while  you  are  at  it,  perhaps  you  may  as  well  ask  what 
he  knows  about  running  a  plantation." 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  quickly,  turning 
her  great  brown  eyes  upon  his  face  with  a  plea  for  mercy. 
"I  know  already  that  you  must  be  both  honest  and 
capable,  or  you  could  not  be  Colonel  Eighmie  of  Mallow- 
banks." 

"Thanks,  Madame,"  he  answered  gravely,  bowing  ac- 
knowledgment of  her  earnest  compliment,  "I  believe 
I  have  earned  the  reputation  you  have  heard.  I  am  old 
enough  to  be  your  father,  ma'am,  and  came  here  to  ad- 
vise you  for  your  own  good." 

"T  am  sure,  sir,"  she  replied,  "I  shall  be  very  glad 
to  have  your  advice  in  redeeming  my  son's  inheri- 
tance." 

"Meaning  this  old  run-down  plantation,  I  reckon?" 
.  sarcastically. 

"  Of  course,"  quietly. 

"  How  much  is  the  mortgage  ?" 

"About  twenty  thousand  dollars,  I  believe." 

"Well,  let  me  tell  you,  Madame,  it  will  take  twenty 
thousand  more  to  make  it  sell  for  that  money." 

"Well?"  she  said  quietly,  as  she  looked  away  from 
his  face  across  the  little  lake  to  the  scraggy,  half-grown- 
up fields,  which  years  of  neglect  had  spread  where  thrift 
and  neatness  once  had  been. 

"Well?"  he  echoed  in  surprise.  "Well?  Are  you 
going  to  undertake  such  a  task  ?" 

"I  have  twenty  years  to  do  it  in,"  she  answered  ab- 
sently, still  looking  across  the  lake  as  if  she  saw  the 
changes  she  would  make,  and  beheld  her'  son  entering 
upon  his  unincumbered  heritage.     "It  will  be  twenty 


108  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

years  before  he  will  come  of  age,  and  a  great  donl  can. 
be  done  in  that  time,  even  little  by  little." 

Her  look  grew  fixed  and  hard  as  she  spoke — more  to 
herself  than  to  her  listener.  The  fair  young  cheek 
seemed  to  lose  something  of  its  bloom  ;  her  lips  shut 
close,  and  her  hands  clasped  each  other  tightly,  as  she 
thus  consecrated  her  life  to  a  harsh  duty. 

The  Colonel  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  He  read 
the  fixed  look  of  self-sacrifice  upon  her  face,  and  re- 
moving his  hat,  he  said  in  a  voice  full  of  respectful 
homage  : 

"  Pardon  me,  Madame,  you  are  right  and  I  was  wrong. 
You  will  do  it ;  and  it  is  Avorth  doing.  Allow  me  to 
place  my  poor  services  at  your  disposal." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  sir,"  she  said  brightly,  extending  her 
hand  in  frank  recognition  of  his  sincerity.  "Then 
please  tell  me  what  I  ought  to  do  first." 

"By  all  means,  change  its  name." 

"  Why  ?     Hargrove's  Quarter  is" — 

"A  poor  name  to  conjure  with,"  he  interrupted. 

"  But  what  diiference  does  it  make  ?" 

"  Your  son's  inheritance  will  be  worth  a  great  deal 
more  if  it  has  a  good  name.  It  takes  time  to  change  the 
style  of  a  plantation,  and  in  this  country  it  is  best  done 
when  a  change  of  ownership  occurs." 

"You  think  I  should  mark  my  coming  by  giving  the 
Quarter  a  new  name." 

"It  will  be  of  great  aid  in  what  you  have  under- 
taken. The  power  to  name  presupposes  the  power  to 
hold  and  control.  Your  neighbors  will  esteem  you  all 
the  more  highly  for  it." 

"I  see  ;  but  what  shall  it  be  called  ?" 

"The  ancients  were  accustomed  to  give  names  de- 
scriptive of  some  incident  attending  their  first  sojourn." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  looking  up  into  his  kind, 


-^o 


Z'^^k 


■»',.-  #V- 


c    a. 

«    IS 


HARGROVE' f^  QUARrFJL  100 

"The  first  good  thing  the  place  has  brought  me  is 
your  friendship,  sir.     Might  I  call  it  '  Amity '  ?" 

"You  do  me  too  much  honor,  Madame,"  said  the 
Colonel,  bowing  low,  with  a  hint  of  a  flush  upon  his 
face  at  this  unexpected  reply.  He  was  unaccustomed 
to  the  directness  which  marked  her  Quaker  breeding. 

So  the  young  heir  was  brought  out  from  one  of  the 
cabins  where  he  had  been  left  in  care  of  a  nurse  ;  the 
mother  held  him  up;  the  Colonel  steadied  his  httle 
hand  as  it  poured  a  wine-glassful  of  water  on  the  soil, 
and  with  much  quiet  mirth  the  plantation  was  re- 
christened  "Amity  Lake." 

And  such  it  remains,  even  to  this  day. 


CHAPTER   X. 

MERWYN   MARGEOVE. 

Before  Merwyn  Hargrove  attained  the  age  of  two 
years,  "Amity  Lake"  was  joined  to  " Mallowbanks" 
by  the  marriage  of  Colonel  Peter  Eighmie  with  the 
widow  of  St,  John  Hargrove.  A  year  afterward,  a 
half-brother,  George  Eighmie,  was  born,  and  the  death 
of  his  mother  followed  close  npon  this  event.  There- 
upon the  twice-widowed  gentleman  became  the  legal 
guardian  of  Merwyn,  and  devoted  his  life  to  the  training 
of  the  two  boys  his  wife  had  committed  to  his  care  with 
her  dying  breath.  Xo  trustee  had  ever  a  more  scrupu- 
lous and  tender  conscience  than  Colonel  Eighmie.  The 
interests  of  the  heir  of  Amity  Lake  were  looked  after 
with  an  exactness  greatly-exceeding  that  bestowed  upon 
his  own  estate.  Not  only  did  he  insist  upon  the  ut- 
most scrutiny  being  given  to  his  dealings  in  this  fidu- 
ciary capacity,  by  the  Orphans'  Court  to  which  he  made 
report,  but  he  even  went  farther  and  assumed  the 
responsibility  of  using  his  own  funds  in  the  betterment 
of  his  ward's  estate.  Between  his  son  and  his  ward,  it 
was  remai'ked,  he  never  made  the  slightest  difference 
in  his  demeanor.  Both  seemed  in  an  equal  degree 
to  be  representatives  to  him  of  the  wife  whose  memory 
he  adored.  The  short  span  of  married  life  which  he  had 
passed  with  her  had  been  to  this  strong,  tender  man  a 
foretaste  of  heaven.  Despite  his  mature  years,  he  seemed 
only  to  have  begun  to  live  when  he  first  met  her.  She  had 
awakened  him  from  the  lethargy  such  as  is  apt  to  super- 
vene upon  years  of  continuous  plantation  life  ;  had  given 

no 


MERWY.Y  ] [Alia ROVE.  Ill 

a  purpose  to  his  oxisteuce  and  made  liim  again  a  man  oi' 
action.  Had  she  Uved  he  would  no  doubt  have  been 
known  in  much  wider  fields  of  influence.  His  young- 
wife,  demure  and  staid  as  she  seemed,  was  yet  aml)i- 
tious,  and  lier  love  for  her  children,  already  stimulated 
Ijy  the  fame  which  her  first  husband  had  won,  demanded 
an  equal  legacy  of  renown  for  those  that  might  bear 
the  name  of  one  whom  she  loved  not  less  deeply  and 
whom  she  must  have  felt  to  be  even  more  worthy  of  her 
devotion.  Her  death,  however,  put  an  end  to  all  such 
aspirations  on  his  part.  Thenceforth  he  had  no  thought 
but  to  promote  tlie  welfare  and  happiness  of  her  children. 
To  secure  this  he  spared  no  pains.  They  grew  up  to- 
gether twins  in  his  love  and  care.  Between  them,  also, 
subsisted  the  warmest  affection.  They  were  so  different 
in  character  and  temperament  that  their  inclinations 
rarely  clashed,  and  the  sports  of  the  one  always  supple- 
mented the  pleasures  of  the  other.  In  force  and  vigor 
of  constitution  and  character  there  was  much  more  dif- 
ference between  them  than  their  years  would  imply. 
Merwyn,  the  scion  of  the  unknown  3'eoman  stock  that 
had  stolen  a  piece  of  the  New  World  and  held  it  in  defi- 
ance of  the  laws  of  the  Old,  was  a  sturdy,  resolute  boy, 
whom  nothing  could  daunt.  Before  he  had  reached  the 
age  of  a  dozen  years  he  had  become  a  fearless  navigator 
of  the  Sound.  Indeed,  his  little  sail-boat  had  more  than 
once  danced  about  in  the  disturbed  waters  of  the  inlet, 
and  once  or  twice  had  even  thrust  her  nose  into  the  blue 
waters  beyond,  only  to  come  scurrying  back  when  she 
reached  a  point  even  with  the  breakei's  on  either  side, 
beyond  which  the  bt)y  had  promised  his  father  never  to 
venture  alone.  The  buccaneer  instinct  early  showed  in 
his  nature.  ISTot  only  did  he  feel  quite  capable  of  de- 
fending himself,  but  no  show  of  force  could  deter  him 
from  insisting  upon  his  own  right  or  that  of  his  younger 
and  weaker  playmate. 


n2  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

On  the  other  hand,  George  Eighmie,  the  heir  of  the 
name  and  blood  of  a  family  which,  in  the  person  of  a 
hrave  knight,  had  come  out  of  Normandy  across  the 
Channel  with  William,  and  had  afterward  been  famed  for 
deeds  of  high  emprise  in  many  wars,  sending  at  length 
to  the  New  World  a  cadet  to  found  a  rival  house  when 
kingdoms  should  supplant  the  forest,  was  weak  in  body 
and  timid  in  mind.  He  followed  his  more  rugged  play- 
mate with  the  most  unquestioning  faith.  Wherever 
Merwyn  went  he  was  willing  to  go  also,  but  he  never 
led  in  any  physical  sports.  In  their  studies,  however, 
he  was  easily  first,  and  in  the  drawing-room  and  the  so- 
ciety of  strangers,  to  which  the  Southern  child  is  accus- 
tomed at  a  much  earlier  age  than  the  Northern  boy,  he 
was  far  more  self-possessed  and  accomplished  than  his 
sturdy  elder  brother.  These  differences  grew  more 
marked  as  the  boys  grew  older,  and  their  mutual  devo- 
tion also  increased.  They  were  almost  inseparable ; 
the  younger  became  a  hunter  and  fisher  of  no  mean 
skill,  while  the  elder  grew  to  be  more  of  a  scholar  than 
he  would  otherwise  have  become,  in  order  that  they 
might  not  be  separated. 

This  difference  between  the  tAvo  lads  did  not  escape 
the  attention  of  the  watchful  man  who  had  been  a 
father  to  both  alike.  If  he  regretted  the  fact  that  his 
own  son  was  of  a  less  rugged  type  than  the  elder  brother 
he  never  expressed  his  sorrow  to  either.  Prudently  re- 
fraining from  any  attempt  to  change  their  natural  incli- 
nations, he  adapted  his  favors  and  gifts  to  their  diverse 
tastes — a  horse  or  a  hound  to  the  one  and  a  book  or  a 
picture  to  the  other.  Amity  Lake  bade  fair  to  become  a 
hunting  lodge  ;  Mallowbanks  a  scholar's  retreat.  To  the 
tastes  of  each  the  father  ministered  with  equal  wisdom 
and  equal  pleasure,  as  it  seemed.  Yet  there  were  not 
wanting  those  who  beheved  that  the  dead  hero's  sou 
had  a  stronger  hold  upon  the  doting  second  husband's 


MEnWYN  HARGROVE.  113 

heart  than  his  own  oftspring.  This  was  not  strange. 
He  had  his  mother's  great  liquid  brown  eyes  and  her 
calm,  unshrinking  gaze,  that  looked  into  the  eyes  on 
which  they  rested  as  if  they  saAV  and  read  the  soul  that 
lay  beyond.  George,  on  the  other  hand,  had  the  gra}' 
eyes  of  his  father,  deepened  into  a  blue  that  attested  his 
affectionate  tenderness  of  disposition,  but  gave  no  pro- 
mise of  ambition  or  achievement.  The  former  had  one 
of  those  restless  spirits  to  whom  the  world's  life  offers 
an  irresistible  charm.  He  must  do  and  dare.  Without 
adventure,  life  to  him  would  not  be  worth  living.  His 
brother  might  sink  down  into  the  sloth  of  a  planter's 
life.  ;  he  miglit  avoid  responsibility  and  enjoy  the  re- 
pose of  a  cultivated  gentleman  of  large  estate — what 
his  life  would  be  depended  very  greatly  upon  the  forces 
that  surrounded  it.  AVhat  MerAvyn's  would  be  de- 
pended more  on  the  character  of  the  task  he  under- 
took to  perform.  If  he  sought  the  Northwest  passage 
he  would  find  it — or  a  grave.  He  would  give  his  life 
to  a  purpose,  great  or  small,  with  a  steadfastness  that 
could  not  falter.  The  one  might  be  a  dreamer ;  the 
other  must  be  a  doer.  The  one  might  do  himself  an 
injury,  or  even  others,  from  lack  of  power  to  resist 
evil.  ;  the  other  would  never  question  the  righteous- 
ness of  anything  which  he  once  undertook.  Obstacles 
that  would  dishearten  George  Eighmie  would  only  stimu- 
late Merwyn  Hargrove. 

"When  Merwyn  had  reached  the  age  of  sixteen  these 
differences  had  become  so  palpable  that  his  thoughtful 
guardian  saw  it  would  not  do  longer  to  defer  the  selection 
of  a  profession  adapted  to  his  temperament.  Though  it 
was  like  parting  his  heart  in  twain,  Colonel  Eighmie 
could  no  longer  conceal  from  himself  the  fact  that  the 
best  interests  of  his  step-son  demanded  that  he  should 
adopt  the  profession  which  his  father  had  honored,  and 
to  which  the  whole  family  seemed  to  have  an  instinctive 


Ill  HOT  PLOWsiiAn/-:.^. 

inclination.  It  was  no  difficult  matter  to  secure  for  the 
son  of  St.  John  Hargrove  a  commission  in  the  service 
his  father  had  adorned  ;  and  the  young  midshipman  bade 
adieu  to  his  home,  the  brother  he  loved,  and  the  father 
■whose  prescient  love  had  in  nowise  failed  to  banish  re- 
gret for  the  father  he  had  lost,  with  a  sorrow  greatly 
lightened  by  the  longing  of  the  instinctive  sailor  for 
the  roll  of  blue  water  under  his  feet.  Before  he  left,  his 
guardian  informed  him  fully  of  the  condition  of  his 
estate,  shoAving  him  that  upon  arriving  at  majority  he 
would  become  master  of  a  plantation  not  only  unen- 
cumbered with  debt,  but  yielding  a  revenue  almost 
equal  to  its  entire  value  when  it  fell  to  him  by  descent. 
The  skill  and  care  of  Colonel  Eighmie  had  transformed 
the  run-down  plantation  into  one  the  fertility  of  which 
lie  frankly  confessed  had  proved  a  surprise  to  himself. 

''No  one  knew,  my  son,"  he  said  in  tremulous  tones, 
"no  one  knew,  in  that  day,  what  Amity  Lake  was 
capable  of  but  your  Ma.  She,  poor  dear,  saw  it  all. 
and  shamed  my  experience  with  her  faith  and  instinct. 
She  always  said  that  Amity  Lake  would  make  you  an 
inheritance  equal  to  any  in  the  State,  and  it'll  nigh 
about  do  it,  my  sou  ;  nigh  about." 

He  gave  him  a  complete  inventory  of  all  the  personal 
property  in  his  hands,  with  a  map  of  the  plantation 
showing  the  use  of  the  different  parts,  and  requested 
him  to  keep  these  by  him  and  write  very  fully  about  his 
affairs,  so  that  he  might  become  accustomed  to  the  man- 
agement of  his  estate  through  an  agent  while  yet  his 
guardian  had  it  in  legal  charge. 

On  the  day  that  Merwyn  reached  his  majority  the 
Colonel  filed  his  final  statement  as  guardian,  and  trans- 
mitted a  copy  with  a  letter  requesting  his  ward's  in- 
structions as  to  the  selection  of  .an  agent,  to  a  distant 
port,  where  the  young  sailor  was  expected  to  be  about 
that  time.     It  met  and  passed  in  mid-ocean  a  letter 


METi  WYX  II A  n  (Ui  0  I  'A'.  115 

from  the  young  ensign,  inclosing  a  release  in  full  to  the 
guardian,  executed  on  his  birthday  before  the  consul  of 
the  port,  and  also  an  unlimited  power  of  attorney  con- 
tinuing in  his  hands  the  management  of  the  estate.  The 
noble  old  man,  still  erect  and  vigorous,  though  he  well 
knew  the  end  could  not  be  far  oft',  wept  tears  of  happy 
pride  at  this  exhibition  of  his  step-son's  trust  in  him. 
He  filed  the  release  in  the  Orphans'  Court,  calling  espe- 
cial notice  to  the  date  as  identical  with  that  of  his  final 
statement  and  the  fact  that  it  was  executed  in  the  port 
of  Fayal — half  the  Avorld's  width  away — and  proudly 
desired  it  to  be  noted  on  the  record  that  he  consented  to 
the  withdrawal  and  cancellation  of  this  release  should 
his  ward  at  any  time  see  fit  to  question  any  of  his  acts 
or  accountings  as  guardian  and  trustee  of  his  estate. 

The  young  officer  had  little  desire  to  return  home. 
The  adventurous  life  and  arduous  service  of  that  day 
suited  well  his  inclination,  and  it  was  not  till  he  had 
passed  the  age  of  t went j^ -five  that  became  back, browned 
by  exposure,  with  the  regulation  bit  of  whisker  just 
reaching  below  either  ear,  and  the  stiff'  navy  stock 
rising  squarely  above  shoulders  on  which  rested  the 
epaulettes  of  a  lieutenant.  His  service  had  been  an 
honorable  one,  and  the  brevet  rank  in  a  higher  grade, 
which  he  had  won  by  special  coolness  under  fire,  gave 
almost  as  much  joy  to  the  fond  old  man  who  awaited  his 
coming,  as  did  the  dark-eyed  little  wife  whom  he  brought 
with  him  from  abroad  to  be  the  mistress  of  Amity  Lake. 
At  her  solicitation,  united  to  the  importunity  of  his 
step-father,  Merwyn  Hargrove  quitted  the  navy  and 
gave  himself  to  the  care  of  his  estate,  the  enjoyment  of 
domestic  life,  and  the  solace  of  the  last  years  of  him 
who  had  been  more  than  a  father  to  his  orphaned  state. 

For  some  reason  Colonel  Eighmie  had  become  es- 
tranged from  his  own  son,  and,  on  Merwyn's  return,  he 
was  still  domiciled  at  Amity  Lake,  while  George  resided 


no  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

at  Mallowbanks,  the  use  and  revenues  of  which  his 
father  had  given  up  entirely  to  him.  Between  the  two 
there  had  not  been  the  sUghtest  intercourse  since  the 
son  had  come  of  age.  Some  unpardonable  oftense  had 
frozen  the  father's  love,  and  he  never  mentioned  the 
name  of  the  quiet,  studious  occupant  of  his  splendid 
riverside  plantation.  Merwyn  learned  from  others  the 
cause  of  the  estrangement,  and  tried  to  effect  a  recon- 
ciliation, but  was  at  once  commanded  by  the  stern  old 
man  never  to  allude  to  the  matter  again.  He  visited 
his  brother  and  found  him  leading  a  quiet,  luxurious 
life — his  plantation  entirely  in  charge  of  the  overseer — 
seeing  and  desiring  no  society.  The  old  regard  for  his 
elder  brother  was  undimmed  by  the  latter's  absence, 
however,  and  he  entrusted  to  him  fully  his  version  of 
the  difference  with  his  father.  Merwyn  tried  to  per- 
suade him  to  yield  the  point  of  controversy,  but,  on  this 
alone,  found  him  to  be  inexorable.  It  was  useless  to 
consider  the  question.  He  had  no  ill-will  toward  his 
parent — indeed,  he  wept  as  he  spoke  of  the  estrange- 
ment ;  but  he  could  not  yield.  Merwyn's  wife,  Rietta, 
also  conceived  a  most  unconquerable  aversion  to  the 
luckless  George,  and  did  all  in  her  power  to  persuade 
Merwyn  to  cast  him  off.  In  this,  however,  she  failed, 
and  her  failure  became  a  potent  element  in  the  results 
that  followed. 

Thus  a  few  years  passed  away,  and  the  old  man  sank 
peacefully  into  the  grave,  the  idol  of  the  household  at 
Amity  Lake,  iDut  never  reconciled  to  the  quiet,  gentle 
scholar  who  dwelt  at  Mallowbanks.  People  wondered 
at  the  father's  firmness,  but  denounced  in  the  most 
bitter  language  the  scandalous  obduracy  of  the  son.  He 
came,  indeed,  to  attend  the  funeral  of  his  father,  but 
the  fiery  Italian  blood  of  Rietta  gave  him  a  welcome 
such  as  he  did  not  care  to  face  again.  AVith  the  death  of 
Colonel  Eighmie,  her  dislike  of  the  recluse  of  Mallow- 


MEBWTN  HARGROVE.  117 


ripened  into  a  hate  which  did  not  hesitate  to 
ascribe  to  him  the  death  of  tlie  father,  who  had  yielded 
to  only  seventy  odd  years  of  life's  wear  and  tear. 
Then,  too,  the  antipatliy  against  him  among  the  neigh- 
boring planters  began  to  increase.  With  his  elder  bro 
ther  alone  he  remained  upon  terms  of  contidence  and 
aftectlon.  Captain  Hargrove,  as  he  was  now  called, 
seemed  somehow  to  blame  himself  for  all  the  moral  de- 
linquencies of  his  weaker  brother.  When  the  good 
people  of  the  vicinage  expressed  their  disapproval  of 
his  Ufe  and  conduct,  and  proposed  to  visit  their  wrath 
upon  the  recreant  son,  they  were  amazed  to  find  that 
the  young  officer  had  constituted  himself  the  defender 
of  his  brother.  He  had  always  been  his  protector,  aud 
still  felt  called  upon  to  assume  that  role.  He  did  not 
pretend  to  justify  his  brother's  course — he  did  not  ex- 
pect the  neighborhood  to  approve  it ;  but  George  Eigh- 
mie  had  a  right  to  do  as  he  chose,  and  no  one  must  in- 
terfere with  that  right  except  on  peril  of  an  altercation 
with  Merwyn  Hargrove.  The  result  of  this  was  that 
Merwyn  and  his  young  wife  were  soon  included  in  the 
social  condemnation  visited  on  their  brother,  and  Amity 
Lake  was  placed  under  the  ban  pronounced  against 
Mallowbanks. 

It  was  because  of  these  things  that  Captain  Hargrove 
became  the  forerunner  of  that  class  of  ocean-wanderers 
known  in  our  day  as  yachtsmen.  To  remove  Rietta  from 
the  petty  annoyances  of  Hfe  at  the  plantation,  and  at 
the  same  time  minister  to  his  own  enjoyment,  he  pro- 
cured a  noted  Boston  shipbuilder  to  make  for  him  a 
small  sloop,  which,  while  thoroughly  seaworthy,  should 
still  be  fitted  up  in  a  style  of  luxury  worthy  of  the 
bright-eyed  queen  whose  floating  palace  it  was  designed 
to  be.  This  costly  toy  was  regarded  as*  a  marvel  of  ele- 
gance in  those  days,  and  the  frequenters  of  the  North- 
ern watering-places,  where  she  now  and  then  folded  her 


11«  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

white  wing.s  for  a  \iii\\  weeks;'  rest,  thought  the  master 
and  mi8tre:ss  of  the  jaunty  httle  craft  must  be  nabobs 
of  ^'ery  great  M'ealth.  During  one  of  these  summer 
t-ruisings  they  had  sailed  up  the  Hudson,  and,  mooring 
the  sloop  in  the  bay  that  lies  below  the  Kaaterskills,  had 
started  in  a  carriage  to  explore  at  their  leisure  that  re- 
gion, then  in  its  quiet  rural  beauty  the  richest  the  land 
aftbrded,  and  to-day  not  excelled  in  the  rare  views  which 
are  to  be  seen  from  its  mountain  peaks. 

Unknown  to  her  husband,  the  capricious  beauty  had 
made  up  her  mind  never  to  return  to  Amity  Lake,  and 
was  quietly  looking  for  a  new  location  for  the  Hargroves 
of  the  future.  Though  of  good  family  in  her  native 
land,  the  profusion  of  her  planter  husband  had  been 
such  as  to  impress  upon  her  mind  the  belief  that  his  re- 
sources were  inexhaustible.  Accustomed  to  the  blue 
vistas  of  the  Piedmont,  it  was  but  natural  that  she 
should  weary  of  the  level  richness  of  the  plantation. 
Her  lively  nature  was  struck,  too,  with  the  greater  ap- 
parent vivacity,  life  and  energy  of  the  Xorthern  people. 
Her  father,  who  had  become  an  exile  for  having  plotted 
for  Italian  liberty  before  its  day-star  had  arisen,  liad  in- 
fused into  his  daughter's  heart,  during  their  years  of 
refuge  in  England's  sheltering  arms,  such  an  intense 
devotion  to  personal  liberty  that  her  whole  nature  re- 
volted at  slavery.  Her  experience  at  Amity  Lake,  where 
the  wise  and  kindly  Colonel  Eighmie  had  permitted  only 
its  best  features  to  take  root  and  grow,  might  have  lulled 
her  antipathy  to  slumber,  perhaps,  but  her  relations 
with  the  master  of  Mallowbanks  did  not  permit  its  most 
offensive  features  to  be  forgotten,  even  for  an  hour. 
Rietta  Hargrove  had  therefore  determined  that  her  hus- 
band, through  his  love  for  her,  should  be  induced  to 
transplant  the  family  tree  from  Carolina  to  such  portion 
of  the  more  free  and  enterprising  Xorth  as  she  should 
select  for  a  permanent  abiding  place.    With  this  in  view, 


MER  wry  llAR  UR  O  i  ■/•;.  1 19 

she  had  persuaded  him  to  sail  up  the  Hudson,  in  that 
day  the  pai-adise  of  elegant  American  leisure,  Avhose 
picturesque  heights  and  umbrageous  valleys  had  already 
been  dedicated  to  luxury  by  the  most  intellectual  and 
scholarly  of  the  fortunate  children  of  the  great  metro- 
polis. Its  jutting  headlands  were  crowned  with  castles, 
fresh  and  garish  enough  as  yet,  and  in  many  instances 
somewhat  too  frail  to  furnish  sightly  ruins  even  in  age. 
Hidden  under  its  leafy  groves  were  the  homes  of  more 
than  one  of  the  writers  of  our  classic  age.  The  villas 
which  fashion  is  now  deserting  for  other  haunts  which 
the  railroad  has  brought  near,  were  then  the  summer 
rendezvous  of  all  that  was  best  and  brightest  in  the  life 
of  that  marvelous  little  island  that  lies  between  the 
rivers  and  rests  upon  the  sea,  through  which  the  na- 
tion's life-blood  flows  in  a  throbbing,  ceaseless  stream. 

These  had  pleased  her  fancy  well,  but  she  wished  to 
see  the  interior  before  revealing  her  secret  plan  to  the 
husband  who,  she  believed,  could  deny  nothing  that  she 
asked.  They  traveled  leisurely,  stopping  to  climb  the 
heights  that  promised  the  best  outlook,  comijaring  all 
that  they  saw  with  those  of  their  kind  in  her  childhood's 
home.  The  sky  was  not  so  blue  ;  the  silence  and  the 
brightness  of  the  eternal  snows  were  not  there.  The 
ravines  were  not  so  dark  nor  the  valleys  so  narrow. 
But  ah,  the  verdure  !  The  grand  umbrageous  woods 
upon  the  slopes  !  The  bright  waters  that  ran  down  be- 
tAveen  and  mingled  and  grew  into  placid  streams !  The 
sense  of  thrift  and  peace  and  home  !  These  Piedmont 
never  knew.  The  shadows  on  her  hills  were  as  dark 
as  the  sad  fate  of  Italy — torn,  distracted,  trampled, 
bleeding  beneath  the  feet  of  contending  ravishers.  This 
was  an  Italy  on  which  English  peace  had  smiled  and 
where  only  American  abundance  dwelt. 

It  was  upon  the  third  day  after  they  left  the  sloop 
that  they  climbed  by  a  devious  path  to  a  wooded  table 


12U  HOT   PLOWSHARES. 

land,  terminating  a  spur  of  the  mountains  wliich  shot 
out  into  the  valley  of  the  Mohawk  between  tin;  waters 
of  two  of  its  tributaries.  It  was  a  l)almy  day  of  early 
summer.  The  little  plateau  on  wliieh  they  stood  was 
carpeted  with  fragrant  verdure.  To  the  eastward,  the 
long  range  of  rugged  hills  that  shut  in  the  level  trough 
of  the  Hudson  showed  their  western  slopes  under  the 
morning  sun,  aflame  with  the  glory  of  the  mountaiw 
laurel — billows  of  rosy  light.  Beneath,  the  triple  val- 
leys met  and  stretched  away,  until  the  northward  limit 
was  lost  in  distance,  while  the  far  western  sky  was  in- 
tlented  with  a  line  of  purple  heights.  Behind  them,  the 
mountain  rose  sharply  many  hundred  feet,  its  rugged 
face  screened  and  softened  by  the  dense  foliage  of  low- 
branching  trees  that  clung  to  its  rocky  sides.  The  val- 
ley was  a  scene  of  peaceful  life.  Sleek  herds  cropp(Hl 
the  green  pastures.  Farmers  wrought  busily  in  the 
fields.  Tidily-dressed  women  passed  in  and  out  of  the 
snug  homes,  engaged  in  their  household  labors,  and 
the  voice  of  song  came  faintly  to  the  ears  of  the  wan- 
derers who  from  the  hill-top  first  beheld  the  quiet  scene. 
The  roads  wound  in  and  out  among  the  hills  and  through 
the  fields  and  groves.  The  sun  shone  brightly.  The 
bees  hummed  in  the  clover  at  their  feet  and  in  among 
the  branches  overhead.  As  they  stood  there,  a  storm 
swept  in  turbulent  wrath  down  the  bed  of  the  western 
tributary,  and  melted  into  a  laughing  shower  in  the 
sunshine  of  the  broader  valley. 

Rietta  watched  it  all  with  heaving  bosom  and  with 
eyes  aglow  with  rapture. 

^'Ah,  Heaven!"  she  cried,  as  she  clasped  her  hands 
and  looked  over  the  vale  the  shower  had  kissed.  "Here 
would  I  live  !  Here  would  I  die  !  Here  is  Italy  !  Here 
is  Ameri-A'a .'  Oh,  Merwyn — my  Merwyn,  here  must 
we  hve — here  die  !  "^Ve,  cam  mio,  we  a,ud— our  chil- 
dren !" 


MERW7N  HARGROVE.  131 

Her  will  was  law.  Amity  Lake  was  sold,  and  Sturm- 
hold  arose  upon  the  table-land  from  which  they  viewed 
the  summer  storm. 

It  was  in  the  flush  times  just  preceding  the  great 
crash  of  the  Jacksonian  era,  when  speculation  ran  wild, 
and  the  old  Hargrove's  Quarter,  transformed  by  Colonel 
Eighmie's  wise  and  prudent  management  into  a  planta- 
tion notable  among  the  finest  of  the  South  Atlantic 
slope,  produced  a  sum  which  would  have  amazed  his 
buccaneer  ancestors  even  more  than  it  did  Merwyn  Har- 
grove. Taken  as  a  piece  of  business,  merely,  the  im- 
pulse of  his  Italian  wife  was  a  most  fortunate  one. 
Sturmhold  and  the  picturesque  domain  that  surrounded 
it  absorbed  but  a  small  proportion  of  this  sum.  Of 
the  remainder  a  part  was  invested  in  the  China  trade, 
with  which  his  foreign  service  had  made  him  familiar, 
and  a  still  greater  part,  with  the  timidity  of  a  man  but 
little  accustomed  to  business,  or  perhaps  with  the  in- 
herited instincts  of  his  race,  he  transmuted  into  coin 
and  secured  in  the  strong  box  whose  secret  hiding  place 
and  mysterious  lock  were  only  known  to  himself  and  his 
faithful  servant,  Jason  Unthank. 

So  the  Southern  planter  was  transformed  into  the  na- 
bob of  that  portion  of  the  valley.  "When  the  crisis 
came,  a  few  years  later,  the  master  of  Sturmhold,  in- 
stead of  being  in  the  least  harmed  by  it,  found  the  pur- 
chasing power  of  his  hoarded  coin  trebled  and  quadru- 
pled. It  was  then  that  the  commercial  instincts  of  the 
people  by  whom  he  was  surrounded  first  took  hold  upon 
him,  and  he  bought  farm  after  farm,  to  right  and  left 
and  up  and  down  the  tributaries,  until  his  domain 
rivaled  in  extent  the  possessions  of  those  who  had  taken 
by  virtue  of  the  King's  grant  or  by  pretended  purchase 
from  the  aborigines.  Then,  too,  his  swift-sailing  sloop 
lost  somewhat  of  her  holiday  neatness  and  made  long 
trips,  whose  destination  and  purpose  none  of  his  neigh- 


122  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

bors  knew,  always  with  the  master  of  Sturnihold  on 
board.  In  all  this,  however,  Merwyn  Hargrove  pre- 
served the  characteristics  of  the  plantation  even  more 
than  those  of  his  profession,  and  the  two  united  formed 
a  combination  which  his  new  neighbors  were  utterly 
unable  to  analyze.  His  agents  were  his  servants,  and 
his  servants  were  trusted  more  than  the  most  confiden- 
tial of  agents.  Of  his  neighbors  he  asked  no  advice 
and  sought  no  assistance.  He  neither  courted  their 
good-will  nor  deprecated  their  resentment.  He  seemed 
unaware  of  their  existence  and  unconscious  of  their 
strictures.  His  wife  felt  this  sort  of  isolation  even  less 
than  he.  Accustomed  to  the  social  life  of  Europe,  where 
every  class  is  absolutely  shut  out  of  all  ranks  above  and 
below  itself,  it  seemed  to  her  by  no  means  unnatural 
that  they  should  dwell  among  a  people  whom  they  did 
not  come  near  in  their  social  life.  Plantation  life  had 
deepened  this  impression,  and  she  made  no  effort  to  be- 
come a  part  of  the  people  among  whom  they  lived.  She 
was  happy  because  of  her  beautiful  surroundings,  the 
elegant  mansion  in  which  she  received  her  many  friends 
from  the  great  city,  and  the  belief  that  she  had  trans- 
formed her  husband  from  the  king  of  a  plantation  into  a 
citizen  of  the  world.  In  truth,  they  had  brought  the  plan- 
tation with  them.  They  had  superimposed  Amity  Lake 
upon  Sturmhold,  In  name,  they  had  become  citizens 
of  ^New  York ;  in  fact,  they  still  remained  Carolini- 
ans. This  impression  was  greatly  aided  by  their  having 
brought  with  them  a  retinue  of  colored  servants — 
all  manumitted  slaves,  as  was  carefully  given  out — 
favorite  servants  from  the  plantation  ;  but  the  fact  that 
some  of  them  had  disappeared,  without  leaving  traces 
that  could  be  followed  beyond  the  master's  sloop,  led 
many  to  conjecture  that  they  had  been  inveigled  again 
into  slavery. 
The  mistress  hardly  lived  long  enough  to  enjoy  the 


MEItWYN  IIAROROVE.  133 

triumph  of  her  love.  Perhaps,  if  she  had,  she  would 
have  discovered  her  isolation,  and,  with  her  keen  in- 
sight and  ready  sympathy,  have  found  a  way  to  open 
the  hearts  of  the  rugged  farmer-folks  about  her  and 
have  made  Sturmhold  the  focus  of  the  region's  life  and 
her  husband  the  exponent  of  its  aspirations.  Almost 
before  the  laAvn  had  lost  the  trace  of  the  builder's  Avork, 
however,  the  rigors  of  the  climate  took  hold  upon  her. 
She  laughed  at  her  husband's  fear  of  the  cough  that 
rang  through  the  elegant  halls  of  the  new  home.  When 
the  spring  came  the  hectic  showed  upon  her  cheek.  She 
was  taken  aboard  the  yacht,  and  its  white  wings  bore 
her  again  to  summer  seas.  It  was  in  vain.  When  the 
autumn  had  painted  the  hills  with  his  magic  touch  she 
was  brought  back  to  the  place  she  loved,  to  die.  She 
left  behind  her  daughter,  Hilda,  then  scarcely  three 
years  of  age,  asking  but  one  thing  to  be  done  in  her 
memory,  and  that  was  that  her  husband  should  keep 
Sturmhold  as  the  family  seat  and  not  return  to  the  South 
and  its  institutions.  Her  opposition  to  these  was  in- 
tense and  peculiar.  There  was  very  little  of  the  hu- 
manitarian element  in  it.  She  did  not  pity  the  slave 
so  much  as  she  deplored  the  effect  upon  the  master. 
She  believed  that  bondage  was  degrading  and  unjust, 
not  merely  to  the  oppressed,  but  to  the  oppressor  even 
more.  Her  keen  perception  taught  her  that  the  time 
must  come  when  the  unnatural  relation  must  be  dis- 
solved in  blood.  She  saw  that  liberty  and  slavery  could 
not  long  co-exist.  She  feared  a  servile  insurrection  and 
desired  to  remove  her  loved  one  from  its  scope. 

Her  husband  did  not  share  these  feelings  or  prejudices 
of  his  wife.  To  him  slavery  was  not  only  a  natural 
state  of  society,  but  the  only  social  organization  which 
was  possible  where  a  strong  race  and  a  weak  race  dwelt 
together.  However,  he  had  little  to  induce  him  to  leave 
Sturmhold,  and  he  assented  without  hesitation  to  his 


124  JIOT  PLOWSHARES. 

wife's  request.  From  the  time  of  her  death  he  grew  still 
more  reserved  with  all  about  him.  His  sloop  made 
still  more  frequent  trips,  and  he  seemed  to  desire  to 
conceal  his  movements  from  his  neighbors.  Year  by 
year  the  dislike  became  more  and  more  apparent  and 
intense.  E^dl  rumors  were  current  in  the  region,  and 
Captain  Hargrove  had  a  constantly  growing  ill-repute 
until  the  day  when  he  brought  misfortune  to  the  home 
of  Harrison  Kortright. 


CHAPTER    XI. 
"gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass." 

"  Good  morning,  little  boy." 

Martin  Kortright  opened  his  eyes,  sat  up  and  looked 
about  him  in  amazement.  He  found  himself  upon  a 
wide,  high-posted  bed  above  which  hung  a  canopy  of 
pale  blue  silk,  the  curtains  of  which  fell  about  him, 
making  a  tent,  and  reminding  him  of  the  summer  sky 
at  twilight.  These  were  drawn  back  in  front,  and 
through  the  opening  he  saw  a  spacious  room,  high-ceiled, 
and  frescoed  in  blue  and  gold.  Heavy  silken  window- 
curtains  matching  the  rest  in  color  shut  out  the  sun- 
shine, save  here  and  there  a  ray  that  shot  between  their 
folds.  The  furniture  was  rich  and  massive  beyond  any 
that  he  had  ever  seen  before,  while  just  in  front  of  him 
a  mirror  that  reached  almost  from  floor  to  ceiling  multi- 
plied the  magnificence  a  thousand-fold  to  his  astonished 
eyes. 

"Don't  you  know  where  you  are  ?" 

The  words  were  followed  by  a  merry,  rippling  laugh. 
Martin  looked  in  the  direction  whence  the  words  and 
the  laugh  came.  Standing  just  in  front  of  him,  one 
arm  upon  the  coverlet  and  the  other  on  the  great 
white  pillow  she  had  pulled  down  so  as  to  get  a  sight  of 
his  face  before  he  awoke,  was  the  dark-eyed  little  lady 
who  had  filled  his  dreams  of  late.  Her  bright  face 
hardly  showed  above  the  coverlet.  A  colored  nurse 
stood  holding  back  the  curtain  and  laughing  at  the 
child's  impatience. 

125 


126  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

"La,  chile,  don't  be  so  fractious-like.  Do  let  the 
little  boy  git  awake  afore  3^011  bothers  him  so." 

"  He  is  awake.     Ai-en't  you,  little  boy  ?" 

Martin  rubbed  his  eyes  again,  and  said  candidly,  "I 
— don't — know." 

"Don't  know?"  laughed  the  sprite.  "Don't  know 
when  you're  awake  ?  Oh,  you're  too  funny  for  any- 
thing.    Where  do  you  think  you  are  ?" 

"I  don't  knoAV,"  said  Martin  seriously.  Then  glanc- 
ing around  the  room  he  added  solemnly,  "In  Heaven, I 
guess." 

"Oh,  you  queer  boy.  No,  you  ain't  in  Heaven.  You 
are  here  at  Sturmhold,  and  you  have  been  asleep,  oh, 
ever  so  long.  I  thought  you  Avould  wake  up  when  we 
got  home,  but  you  didn't,  and  papa  brought  you  here 
and  put  you  on  the  bed  himself.  Oh,  he's  awfully  good, 
my  papa  is.     Don't  you  think  so  V" 

"Well,  well,"  said  a  brusque  voice  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  and  Captain  Hargrove  stepped  forward  with  a 
smile  on  his  face  and  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes.  "Is  that 
tlie  way  you  treat  your  guests,  Hilda — wake  them  up  to 
catechise  them  on  your  papa's  merits  and  demerits  ?" 

"  Oh  papa  !"  cried  Hilda  with  tones  of  rapture,  bound- 
ing into  his  arms  and  kissing  him  again  and  again. 

"  There,  there,  dear,"  said  the  father,  checking  her 
caresses ;  "  save  some  of  them  for  to-morrow  morning. 
Let  me  speak  to  your  Httle  friend,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  papa,  he  d-oesn't  know  where  he  is." 

"  I'm  not  surprised  at  that,  puss,  if  you  waked  him  up. " 

"Oh,  I  didn't  kiss  /iwn,"  she  said,  glancing  shyly  at 
Martin  under  her  dark  lashes. 

"Indeed!  Why  not,  I  should  like  to  know?"  he 
asked  quizzically. 

"  'Cause" — she  said,  dropping  her  head  still  lower 
and  putting  a  finger  to  her  pouting  lips—"  'cause  I— I 
couldn't  get  at  him." 


GAY  CASTLES  IN  THE  CLOUDS  THAT  PASS. 


12^ 


"Ha!  ha'/'  laughed  the  father  heartily.  "A  very 
good  reason,  mdeed.  I  suppose  you  would  have  kissed 
him  if  you  could,  eh?'' 

"  He's  a  good  Uttle  boy,"  said  the  girl  sententiously. 
"  That's  true,  dear,  and  how  is  the  good  little  hoy 
this  morning,  George— I  mean  Martin  V" 

"  Pretty  well,"  answered  the  boy,  simply.  The  afiec- 
tionate  by-play  between  father  and  daughter  had  been 
almost  as  great  a  marvel  to  him  as  the  enchanted  palace 
in  which  he  found  himself. 

"That's  right,"  said  Hargrove,  patting  the  boys 
cheek  and  noting  the  temperature  and  tone  of  the  skin 
as  he  did  so.  "Yes,  you  are  all  right.  Does  the  arm 
ache  ?"— looking  at  the  Angers  the  surprised  lad  was 
unconsciously  bending  back  and  forth  to  remove  the 
feeUng  of  uneasiness  which  the  night  had  brought  to 
the  spUntered  member. 
"  A  little,"  said  Martin. 

"Sorry,"  responded  the  master  of  Sturmhold,  "but 
when  you  have  had  breakfast  and  a  ride  after  the  bays 
I  reckon  you'll  feel  better,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes !"  said  the  boy,  waking  into  life  at  the  men- 
tion of  the  horses. 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  Captain,  laughing  at  his  en- 
thusiasm, "  William  will  come  to  help  you  dress  pre- 
sently, and  we  will  see  that  you  do  not  get  drowsy 
again,  before  night  at  least.  As  you  could  not  wake 
your  prince  with  a  kiss,  Hilda,  you  might  as  well  give 
him  one  to  disenchant  him  now.  He  is  evidently  under 
a  spell  of  some  kind. 

He  held  the  child  over  and  she  put  her  arms  about 
Martin's  neck  and  kissed  him  on  the  cheek.  The  boy 
drew  back  doubtfully,  while  the  Captain  tossed  his 
daughter  up  and  bore  her  laughingly  away.  The  kiss 
burned  on  Martin  Kortright's  cheek  with  a  strange 
warmth-    Could  it  be  that  the  wonderful  being,   the 


128  UOT  PLOWSHARES. 

very  sight  of  whom  had  soothed  his  pain  on  the  day  of 
Ills  misfortune,  had  kissed  him  ?  There  was  something 
so  strange  so  wonderful,  so  fairly -Hke  about  her  that  he 
could  hardly  believe  himself  awake.  He  thought  it  must 
be  all  a  dream,  and  when  the  colored  servant  came, 
he  submitted  to  be  washed  and  combed  and  dressed  with 
a  half  belief  that  he  would  yet  awake  and  find  that  the 
castle  had  crumbled.  But  when  he  saw  his  rough  far- 
mer-boy shoes  nicely  blackened  and  the  careful  servant 
brushing  his  clothes,  which,  though  his  very  best,  yet 
seemed  coarse  and  out  of  place  amid  the  grand  things 
that  w^ere  about  him,  he  began  to  experience  a  sense 
of  depression  and  awkwardness  that  destroyed  all  the 
glamour,  and  made  even  the  magnificent  surround- 
ings painful  and  oppressive.  When  he  was  ushered 
down  to  breakfast  and  sat  beside  the  little  Hilda,  whose 
eyes  seemed  deeper  and  softer  than  ever,  and  remembered 
the  kiss  upon  his  cheek  ;  saw  a  repast,  really  plain,  but 
appearing  to  his  unaccustomed  eyes  of  regal  richness, 
served  by  watchful  servants  who  moved  about  with 
noiseless  steps,  and  spread,  upon  a  massive  table,  in 
dishes  of  rare  delicacy  of  form  and  material — china  and 
silver  and  glass,  with  the  glint  of  gold  in  the  lining  of 
some  of  them  ; — when  all  this  burst  upon  him,  the  sense 
of  unreality  returned.  He  wondered  if  the  missionary 
who  sent  the  seeds  from  which  had  grown  the  two  ever- 
greens before  his  father's  door  ever  saw  such  splendor 
in  the  far-ofi"  Orient.  Then  he  glanced  shyly  at  the 
master  and  wondered  if  he  were  as  bad  a  man  as  was 
whispered  around  the  country-side. 

And  all  that  day,  and  for  many  days  thereafter,  the 
sense  of  dreaming  unreality  remained.  The  Knight  had 
found  his  Lady-love  and  was  imprisoned  with  her  in  the 
castle  of  Indolence,  at  the  portal  of  which  a  terrible 
giant  stood  guard,  and  such  was  the  enervating  effect  of 
the  magic  spells  that  rested  on  him  that  he  no  longer 


GAY  CASTLES  IJV  THE  CLOUDS  THAT  PASS.  131) 

dreamed  of  doing  great  things,  but  wished  that  he  might 
live  on  forever  in  this  abode  of  kixury  and  ease. 

The  days  grew  into  weeks,  and  still  Martin  Kortright  re- 
mained at  Sturmhold.  Captain  Hargrove,  by  some  occult 
influence  it  would  seem,  had  persuaded  Mrs.  Kortright 
to  allow  him  to  remain  for  a  few  days,  and,  by  sending 
him  every  day  or  two  to  receive  her  caresses  and  inquire 
of  his  father's  condition,  had  finally  reconciled  her  to  this 
partial  separation  ;  so  that  when  the  convalescent  father 
was  inclined  to  complain  at  the  boy's  absence,  she  even 
undertook  the  task  of  proving  to  him  how  much  better 
it  was  for  the  lad  than  that  he  should  be  shut  up  at 
home  during  the  severe  winter  weather,  and  succeeded 
so  well  that  Martin  was  allowed  to  remain  and  share 
the  sports  and  tasks  of  the  httle  Hilda,  with  the  hearty 
concurrence  of  his  parents. 

It  was  not  strange  that  they  consented.  The  one  desire 
of  their  hearts,  cold  and  undemonstrative  as  they  seemed, 
was  the  happiness  and  interest  of  their  boy.  His  good 
was  the  motive  of  all  their  acts  and  the  chief  element  of 
all  their  plans.  Already  they  had  ceased  to  look  for- 
ward to  a  future  of  their  own.  They  thought  they  had 
attained  the  limit  of  their  growth  and  development, 
"What  they  were  to  be  they  had  already  become.  They 
might  gather  somewhat  more  of  wealth,  though  they 
hardly  desired  to  do  so  except  to  lift  up  their  son.  To 
put  him  higher  in  the  scale  of  being  than  they  were  ;  to 
make  him  one  of  the  Presidential  possibilities,  not  b}' 
wealth  nor  by  chicane,  but  by  giving  him  a  chance  to 
make  himself  felt  among  his  fellows ;  to  be  all  that  he 
might — this  was  the  one  thought  of  their  fond,  silent 
hearts  ;  for  this  they  labored,  watched  and  prayed. 

That  it  would  be  for  the  child's  good  to  remain  at 
Sturmhold  for  the  winter  they  had  little  doubt.  Not 
because  the  master  was  a  rich  man — there  was  in  the 
Btui'dy  couple  none  of  that  spirit  that  courts  the  rich  for 


130  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

favor.  They  were  not  poor  themselves,  and  -would  have 
scorned  the  thought  of  allowing  the  son  to  improve  his 
chances  in  the  world  by  becoming  the  favorite  of  an- 
other. It  was  not  of  benefit  from  Merwyn  Hargrove 
that  either  of  them  thought  in  assenting  to  his  proposal, 
but  of  advantage  to  be  derived  from  a  style  of  life 
Martin  could  never  look  for,  even  in  the  house  of  his 
well-to-do  parents.  They  meant  him  to  be  something 
more  than  they  had  been,  if  it  pleased  God  to  favor  their 
plans,  and  they  thought  it  nothing  less  than  providential 
that  he  was  privileged  while  he  was  yet  young  to  become 
familiar  with  that  life  which  they  hoped  he  would  some 
time  adorn. 

"It's  a  good  thing,"  said  the  Squire,  talking  over  the 
proposal  with  his  wife,  "to  get  used  to  the  ways  of  the 
world  early.  It  comes  awkward  to  a  man  after  he  gets 
grown  up  an'  has  reached  the  top  of  the  ladder  the  Lord 
has  set  afore  him  to  climb,  to  be  brought  in  company 
with  those  that  were  born  somewhere  about  the  top 
rungs.  It  must  take  a  deal  of  trouble  to  get  used  to 
servants  and  forms  and  ceremonies,  then.  But  they  're 
the  very  things  a  man 's  got  to  know — and  not  only  know, 
but  be  used  to,  if  he  's  going  to  get  on  in  the  world." 

"Marty  is  a  well-behaved  boy,"  said  the  mother,  half 
resenting  the  idea  that  any  training  could  be  better  than 
that  of  Paradise  Bay. 

"  Of  course  he  is,  mother,  and  he 's  got  good  stuif  in 
him,  too.  But  he 's  like  my  Sunday  boots.  There  ain't 
no  better  made  boots  in  Albany  than  them — good  stock 
and  good  work,  every  stitch  on 't.  And  they  're  all  right 
for  church  here  at  Skendoah  meetin'  house,  too.  But 
you  jest  ought  to  have  seen  them  boots  when  I  went  into 
the  Governor's  house  to  present  that  petition  we  sent  up 
'l3out  the  bank.  I  thought  they  were  jest  the  meanest, 
awkwardest,  cheapest-looking  things  a  man  ever  wore. 
I'd  had  'em  blacked  at  the  hotel,  but  they  wa'u't  used 


GA  7  CASTLES  IN  THE  CL  0  UDS  TEA  T  PA  SS.  1 31 

to  it,  you  see,  an'  it  didn't  take  well.  They  squeaked  an' 
hollered ;  stuck  out  at  the  side  an'  up  at  the  toes  an' 
were  run  over  at  the  heel,  till  I  thought  every  one  in  the 
room  must  be  lookin'  at  them;  an'  when  I  sat  down  I 
hustled  'em  under  my  chair  jest  as  far  as  I  could  get  'em. 
But  tliere  was  the  Governor,  jest  as  homely  a  man  as 
ever  looked  over  a  stump  fence,  with  feet  as  much  as 
three  sizes  bigger'n  mine  ;  great,  long,  flat  mud-splashers, 
the  biggest  I  ever  saw,  except  Henry  Clay's — I  never 
shall  forget  his.  As  I  say,  the  Governor  sat  there  among 
all  them  great  ladies  and  gentlemen  Avith  jest  the  com- 
monest kind  of  boots,  not  more  'n  half  blacked  and  a 
patch  on  the  toe  of  one  on  'em ;  but  I  tell  you,  Martha, 
they  looked  as  if  they  'd  jest  grown  there.  They  were 
used  to  it,  you  see — used  to  it.  That  makes  the  differ- 
ence, and  jest  about  all  the  difference,  Martha,  whether 
it's  with  men  or  boots." 

"  It  does  take  you  to  see  things  nobody  else  would  ever 
think  of,  father,"  said  Mrs.  Kortright.  "  But  I've  often 
thought  that  it  makes  more  difference  where  a  man's 
been  than  what  he  knows.  Kow,  there 's  Captain  Har- 
grove ;  I  don't  s'pose  he  really  knows  any  more  'n  the 
ordinary  run  of  the  neighbors." 

"I  wouldn't  be  afraid  to  bet,"  interrupted  Kortright, 
"  that  half  the  men  that  rent  farms  from  him  read  more 
pages,  year  in  an'  year  out,  than  he  does." 

"I  shouldn't  a  bit  wonder,"  answered  his  wife.  "  He 
seems  to  be  real  kind  of  rough  like,  sometimes." 

"  Been  a  sailor,  you  know,  or  at  least  an  officer  of  the 
navy  and  seen  a  good  deal  of  roughness  there,  I  s'pose," 

"Well,  whether  'twas  there  or  somewhere  else,  I 
don't  undertake  to  say,"  said  Mrs.  Kortright,  with  a 
determinedly  non-committal  air;  "what  I  say  is  that 
there  are  streaks  of  roughness  in  him,  now  and  then,  yet 
no  one  would  ever  think  of  his  being  the  least  bit  awk- 
wanl  or  embarrassed,  even  before  kings  and  queens," 


V.yZ  HOT  P/JJWtHIAIiES. 

"That's  so,"  assented  Kortright. 

"Besides  that,"  said  Mrs.  Kortright,  "it  is  a  good 
cliance  for  Martin  to  have  the  advantage  of  learning 
without  goin'  to  school,  after  havin'  his  arm  broke. 
You  know  hoys  will  he  hoys,  and  Martin  ain't  strong, 
nohow." 

"  Never  was  sick  a  day  in  his  life." 

"That's  so;  but  yet  you  know  he  don't  grow  and 
seem  stout  like." 

"Well?" 

"Now  you  know  Captain  Plargrove  has  Miss  Barber, 
the  minister's  daughter,  from  Loweboro',  up  to  Sturm- 
hold  in  his  carriage  every  day  to  give  that  little  girl  her 
lessons  ;  and  he  says  Martin  can  jest  go  on  with  Hilda 
an'  not  cost  a  cent  more  nor  be  a  mite  of  trouble.  In  fact, 
he  says  it'll  be  a  great  advantage,  'cause  it'll  make  the 
little  girl  Avork  harder  to  keep  up  with  him  ;  for  it  seems 
that  our  boy's  ahead  of  his  girl,  if  he  hasn't  had  more'n 
half  her  chances." 

"That  would  be  handy  for  Marty,  and,  as  you  say, 
save  any  danger  of  gittin'  his  aran  broke  agin." 

"Yes,  and  then  j^ou  know  this  rheumatiz  may  hang 
round  you  all  winter,  and  I  don't  think  it's  good  for 
children  to  be  shut  up  in  the  house  where  sick  folks  are, 
too  much." 

"Well,  no;  and  besides  that,  as  the  Captain  says,  it 
would  keep  the  girl  chirk  and  lively  while  he's  gone. 
An'  there's  where  Jason  agrees  with  him.  You  know  he 
always  said  the  little  girl  wouldn't  do  nothing  but  mope 
an'  mourn  when  the  Captain  was  away." 

"So  he  did.  One  wouldn't  think  to  see  her,  though, 
that  she  ever  did  anything  but  laugh  and  carry  on.'' 

"She  is  a  bright  little  thing,"  assented  Kortright 
thoughtfully.  ''But  they  say  that's  jest  the  kind  that 
sutlers  most  when  they  do  have  trouble." 

"I  s'pose  that's  the  fact,"  said  the  cheery  matrcju,  as 


GA  Y  CA.STLA\S  IN  THE  CL 0 UDS  THA T  FAS,^.   l;j;j 

she  rocked  back  and  forth,  her  needles  chcking  as  their 
bright  points  gleamed  in  the  candlelight.  Her  hnsband 
glanced  at  her  with  a  half  smile  as  he  thought  how  well 
she  illustrated  the  converse  of  his  remark.  Trouble  had 
never  worn  Martha  Kortright  and  never  would. 

HaiTison  Kortright  had  left  his  bed  and  occupied  now 
during  the  daytime  the  lounge  on  which  Martin  had 
passed  the  early  period  of  his  disability.  Yet  he  was 
none  the  less  an  invalid.  His  thin  and  wasted  face, 
over  which,  as  he  spoke,  passed  twinges  of  pain  every 
now  and  then,  testified  to  this  fact  as  clearly  as  the 
cramped  limbs  and  the  pair  of  stout  canes  that  lay  be- 
side his  couch.  As  if  his  pain  had  reminded  him  of  the 
fact,  Kortright  added  after  a  moment : 

"I  don't  more'n  half  like  letthi'  the  boy  stay  there, 
after  all's  said  and  done,  but  we  can  do  no  less  after 
what  the  Captain's  done  for  us,  that's  certain.  I  don't 
know  how  you'd  have  got  along,  or  I  either,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  that  man  Unthank.  There  must  have  been  a 
month  that  he  scarcely  slept  a  wink  at  nfght.  And  come 
to  think  on't,  the  Captain  wa'n't  a  particle  to  blame 
about  it.     I'd  have  had  the  rheumatiz,  any  way." 

"But  you  got  it  takin'  that  woman  away  that  he  was 
goin'  to  kidnap." 

"That's  so;  that  is,  I  got  it  that  night  before  the 
'lection,"  assented  her  husband.  "  'Bout  the  kidnap- 
ping, I  ain't  so  sure." 

"Didn't  she  say  that  he  was  planning  to  take  her 
back  to  slavery,  and  that  was  the  reason  she  ran  awayV" 
asked  his  wife  in  surprise. 

"  She  certainly  did  ;  but  I've  been  thinking  about  the 
matter  since  I've  been  lying  here,  and  I  can't  make  it  out. " 

"I  should  think  she  ought  to  know,"  said  Mrs.  Kort- 
right. 

"So  she  ought  and  perhaps  she  did,"  responded  tiie 
Squire;  "but  I  can't  make  it  out  for  all  that.     If  he'd 


134  HOT  PLOW>^IIAIiEH. 

wanted  to  kidnap  her  why  didn't  he  do  it  before,  or  in 
fact  Avhat  did  he  bring  her  here  for  at  aU  ?" 

"  Why,  to  nurse  his  httle  girl." 

"  Couldn't  he  have  hired  that  done  just  as  well  with- 
out risking  such  a  jnece  of  property  here  ?  And  don't 
the  girl  need  her  just  as  much  now  as  ever '?" 

"Well,  really,  one  would  think  you  were  sorry  for 
what  you  had  done,"  said  Mrs.  Kortright. 

' '  Not  at  all, "  said  he  stubbornly.  ' '  The  woman  wanted 
to  go  and  had  a  right  to  go,  and  I  took  her.  That's 
all  there  is  of  that.  But  I  don't  believe  Captain  Har- 
grove had  any  more  idea  of  kidnapping  that  woman 
than  he  has  of  kidnapping  our  Martin." 

"  Oh,  mercy  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Kortright,  with  a  start. 

"There,  there,  mother,"  said  he  soothingly.  "I 
hadn't  no  idea  of  putting  such  a  notion  in  your  head. 
What  I  meant  to  say  was  that  he  hadn't  no  more  no- 
tion of  running  off  that  woman  than — than  of  eloping 
with  you." 

"Now,  Harrison!"  said  the  comely  matron  with  a 
blush  and  an  arch  look  at  her  husband, 

"Well,  well,"  said  he  with  a  laugh,  "I  couldn't  hardly 
blame  him  for  wanting  to  do  that." 

"  There  must  have  been  something  Avrong  at  the  bot- 
tom-of  it." 

"There  ain't  no  doubt  of  that,  but  I  ain't  at  all  sure 
that  Captain  Hargrove  was  at  the  bottom  on't." 

"Perhaps  not."  The  good  dame  was  busy  picking 
up  the  stitches  she  had  dropped.  After  a  time  she  said  : 
"Did  you  ever  think  it  queer  what  Jason  told  us  about 
all  the  servants  at  Sturmhold  except  himself  being  paid 
off  and  sent  away  at  one  time?" 

"No;  and  I  don't  see  anything  queer  about  it  now. 
I  s'pose  rich  folks  change  their  servants,  sometimes." 

"  Of  course ;  but  ain't  it  strange  they  should  change  all 
of  'era  at  once  ?" 


GA  Y  CASTLES  IN  THE  CLOUDS  THAT  PASS.  13r, 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  but  it  might  be." 

''And  that  such  a  man  as  Jason  Un thank  should 
never  see  nor  hear  from  any  of  them  again  ?" 

"It  does  seem  a  little  odd,  now  yovi  mention  it,"  as- 
sented Kortright  gravely. 

"And  that,  you  remember,  was  just  before  this  woman 
Lida  came,  too." 

"  And  after  his  wife  died." 

"  And  before  he  brought  his  daughter  home." 

Kortright  drew  a  long  breath. 

"It's  all  so,  Martha,  and  there's  something  wrong 
somewhere.  I  don't  doubt  that.  But  it  ain't  in  Cap- 
tain Hargrove.  If  he  ain't  a  good  man  and  an  honest 
one,  then  I  don't  know  anything  about  a  man.  That's 
all." 

"  Well,  it's  somebody,"  persisted  the  wife. 

"I  ain't  so  sure  about  that,"  rejoined  the  Squire. 
"I'm  half  the  notion  that  it's  just  a  bad  system  that's 
made  the  Master  a  slave  and  the  Slave  a  victim." 


CHAPTER    XII. 

PARTNERS. 

Little  by  little  the  farmer-boy  was  transformed. 
His  blue  cap  gave  way  to  fur ;  a  rich  cloak  and  bright 
red  tippet  made  liim  appear  a  fit  companion  for  the  little 
Hilda,  Avith  whom  he  rode  every  day.  While  his  exter- 
nal appearance  was  thus  changing  he  underwent  a  not 
h'ss  striking  mental  transformation.  The  ways  of  the 
great  house  were  no  longer  irksome  or  unfamiliar.  The 
retinue  of  servants  no  longer  awed  his  unaccustomed 
eyes.  The  little  Hilda  lost  none  of  her  spiritual  charm 
in  becoming  a  sweet,  familiar  fact.  Her  morning  and 
evening  kiss  Avere  like  honey-dew  upon  his  lips.  The 
child  had  led  a  lonely  life,  and  the  absence  of  her  ac- 
customed nurse  had  left  her  hungry  for  companionship, 
even  in  the  crowded  mansion.  The  "  good  little  boy"  had 
taken  a  hold  upon  her  fancy,  which  the  father  gratified 
as  he  would  have  gratified  her  wish  for  any  other  toy. 
Besides,  the  boy  had  done  a  brave  thing.  He  liked  him. 
There  was  an  unflinching  straightforwardness  about  him 
that  not  only  amused  but  interested.  Mr.  Hargrove  was 
desirous  of  recompensing  him  somewhat  for  what  he  had 
suftered.  So  Hilda  was  alloAved  her  own  sweet  will  with 
her  new  plaything.  She  had  persisted  in  giving  him  the 
room  next  her  OAvn,  and  treating  him  in  all  respects  as 
her  brother.  She  consulted  his  Avishes  in  all  things,  and, 
to  the  surprise  of  the  servants,  yielded  readily  her  A\'ill 
to  another  besides  that  of  her  father.  The  simple  sin- 
cerity of  her  conduct  Avas  met  by  a  corresponding  open- 
pess  and  earnestness  on  ]\Iartin's  part.  lie  kncAV  so 
136 


PARTNERS.  137 

little  of  the  world  which  he  had  entered  that  it  never 
once  occurred  to  him  that  there  was  anything  unusual 
or  peculiar  in  his  position.  All  around  him  there  was 
an  apparent  lavishness  that  made  the  sums  expended 
ni  his  behalf  seem  trifles  not  worth  cousiderino-.  Why 
should  not  a  man  make  gifts  who  seemed  to  spend  his 
money  freely  in  every  other  conceivable  method  ?  For 
to  this  country  boy's  unsophisticated  mind  there  was 
nothing  wanting  in  the  appointments  or  surroundings 
of  Sturmhold.  Besides,  he  had  felt  himself  somewhat 
111  at  ease  with  Hilda  while  the  coarse  habiliments  of 
his  home-life  seemed  to  mark  the  distinction  between 
his  lot  and  hers.  So  he  accepted  the  good  things  that 
late  threw  in  his  way,  became  the  companion  and  pro- 
tector of  the  little  lady,  and,  unconsciously  to  all,  soon 
shared  her  throne  and  ruled  with  her  the  retinue  and 
through  her  the  master  of  Sturmhold.  Hardly  had  the 
injured  arm  been  released  from  the  sling  and  the  role  of 
the  invalid  ceased,  ere  he  had  become  an  accustomed 
and  welcome  presence  in  the  picturesque  but  lonely 
mansion.  Sharing  the  pleasures  and  the  tasks  of  Hilda 
all  constraint  was  soon  forgotten.     That  age 

"...   'twlxt  boy  and  youth 
When  thought  is  speech  and  speech  is  truth, ' ' 

makes  a  smooth  pathway  from  heart  to  heart  The 
farmer's  boy  lost  nothing  of  his  self-respect ;  the  na- 
bob's daughter  never  dreamed  of  condescension  He 
never  questioned  why  he  found  his  new  surroundings 
sweet ;  and  it  never  occurred  to  her  that  they  were  any 
fairer  than  he  had  always  known.  She  had  been  so 
accustomed  to  luxurious  environments  that  she  never 
thought  of  regarding  them  as  exceptional.  He  had  never 
known  want,  and  so  had  no  envy  of  wealth.  Her  pic- 
tures, books  and  toys  were  as  rich  a  treat  to  him  as  if  a 
fairy  had  brought  them  at  his  wish.  She  never  tired 
of  the  stories  of  his  rustic  sports,  and  soon  grew  ahnost 


138  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

as  anxious  as  he  for  the  day  to  come  when  they  should 
visit  Paradise  Bay. 

So  it  happened  that,  before  Christmas  time,  it  seemed 
as  if  each  home  had  gained  anotlier  child.  Squire  Kort- 
right  and  his  wife  had  become  devotedly  attached  to 
Hilda,  and  Captain  Hargrove  manifested  more  affec- 
tion for  Martin  than  he  had  exhibited  toward  any  one  but 
Hilda  since  his  Avife's  death.  Mrs.  Kortright  had  been 
to  Sturmhold  on  the  master's  invitation,  and  saw  with 
a  fond  mother's  delight  all  that  made  her  boy  so  bright 
and  happy.  It  was  observed  with  many  wondering  re- 
marks by  the  servants  that  this  was  the  first  time  that 
any  of  the  neighbors  had  been  invited  to  the  precincts 
of  Sturmhold.  Up  to  the  day  that  Martin  had  come 
into  the  life  of  the  mansion  the  utmost  seclusion  had 
prevailed.  Not  only  was  no  one  asked  to  visit  the  pre- 
mises, but  precautions  had  been  adopted  to  prevent  even 
accidental  intrusion.  Hilda's  teacher  had  always  been 
driven  back  and  forth  each  day,  no  matter  hoAv  unpro- 
pitious  the  weather.  But  since  Martin's  laughter  had 
wakened  the  echoes  about  the-  silent  house,  she  had  sev- 
eral times  been  invited  to  stay  for  the  night,  and  once 
had  been  kept  prisoner,  half  against  her  will,  for  several 
days.  A  change  Avas  noted,  too,  in  the  master.  It  seemed 
as  if  a  burden  of  care  had  been  unexpectedly  rolled  from 
his  shoulders.  Before,  he  had  appeared  moody,  ab- 
sorbed and  care-Avorn.  Since  his  Avife's  death  he  had 
hardly  smiled  on  any  one  but  his  daughter.  Noav  he 
Avas  full  of  humor  and  seemed  to  take  almost  as  much 
pleasure  in  the  sports  of  the  children  as  they  did 
themselves. 

"  I  declar'  for't,"  said  Jason  Unthank,  in  couA^ersatiou 
Avith  one  of  the  servants  soon  after  his  return  from 
Kortright's,  shaking  his  head  solemnly,  "I  declar'  for't, 
Bre'er  William,  I  don't  knoAV  what's  a-gAvine  to  happen. 
I'se  knowed  Marse  HargroAX  ever  seuce  we  was  boys; 


PARTNERS.  139 

together,  down  at  de  Quarter,  an'  I'se  been  with  him 
almost  every  blessed  minute  sence  I  come  on,  jest  atter 
Miss  Ketty  died,  an'  I  don't  'llow  thet  I'se  ever  heard 
him  iaugh,  enny  more'n  jest  a  sort  o'  chuckle  dat  he 
swallowed  'fore  'twas  half  out,  till  this  blessed  day. 
'Pears  like  he's  done  turned  boy  agin',  sence  I'se  been 
away.  I  do  declar  ef  he  ain't  for  all  the  world  jes  like 
de  young  Marse  Merwyn  down  on  de  ole  Carolina  plan- 
tation." 

"  Been  so  most  ever  sence  you  went  away,  too,  more 
or  less,"  said  William,  earnestly.  "We've  all  done 
talked  about  it  over  and  often." 

"I  can't  understand  it,"  said  Jason,  shaking  his  head 
seriously.  "  I'se  afeard  it  don't  mean  no  good.  I'se 
always  heerd  'twa'n't  no  good  sign  when  anybody  turns 
right  round  from  t'other  to  which  that  way— cryin'  one 
minute  an'  laughin'  the  next,  or  wice  wersy,  with  no  sort 
o'  reason  for  changin'  that  anybody  can  find  out." 

"An'  I  b'leeve  it,"  said  William,  with  a  look  and 
tone  that  attested  his  sincerity. 

"I  hain't  got  no  call  to  deny  it,"  said  Jason,  as  he 
passed  on  to  his  duties,  with  a  non-committal  air  that 
befitted  his  position  as  the  trusted  head  of  the  house- 
hold retinue. 

After  a  time,  however,  the  master  of  Sturmhold 
became  again  preoccupied  and  moody.  He  ceased  to 
take  any  part  in  the  children's  sports,  and,  indeed,  be- 
came apparently  almost  oblivious  to  their  existence. 
Hilda,  used  to  such  moods,  after  vainly  trying  to  divert 
her  father  from  them,  gave  her  attention  still  more  to 
Martin,  who,  after  a  day  or  two  of  uneasy  wonder  at 
the  changed  demeanor  of  the  man  who  had  so  completely 
captivated  his  fancy,  became  accustomed  to  it,  and  the 
twain  almost  forgot  his  existence  for  days  together. 

With  many  misgivings,  Mrs.  Kortright  invited  Cap- 
tain Hargrove  and  the  two  children  to  share  the  Christ- 


140  HOT  PLOW^HARl£S. 

mas  dinner  at  Paradise  Bay,  and  greatly  to  the  surprise 
of  all  the  invitation  was  accepted.  It  was  a  red-letter 
day  in  the  calendar  of  the  two  young  lives.  They  went 
in  the  crisp  brightness  of  a  winter  morning.  All  day 
long,  after  their  arrival,  the  hero-boy  showed  the  won- 
dering girl  the  scenes  of  his  early  achievements.  The 
great  red  barn,  with  its  dark  corners,  dim  passages, 
great  mows  and  cobwebbed  roof,  decorated  with  the 
mud-daubed  homes  of  summer  swallows,  was  explored 
from  purline  to  basement.  The  broken  arm,  grown  well 
and  strong,  was  quite  forgotten  by  the  boy,  who  was 
only  preserved  from  even  more  serious  injury  by  the  fate 
that  watches  over  boys;  but  it  was  not  for  a  moment 
absent  from  the  mind  of  the  girl  who  beheld  his  ex- 
ploits. She  held  her  breath  in  terror  at  his  daring 
familiarity  with  the  horses,  oxen  and  cows.  The  reck- 
lessness with  which  he  climbed  the  ladder,  walked  the 
great  beam  and  took  a  flying  leap  of  a  dozen  feet  down 
upon  the  cut  side  of  the  haymow,  not  only  commanded 
her  admiration  but  awakened  her  amazement.  Sturm- 
hold  sank  into  insignificance .  beside  this  silent  play- 
house of  the  sturdy  boy,  whom  she  was  daily  coming  to 
regard  as  a  hero  of  more  than  knightly  mettle. 

Within  the  house  a  difierent  scene  was  enacted.  From 
early  morning  a  fire  had  been  burning  in  the  parlor — 
that  strangely  isolated  portion  of  the  American  farm- 
house of  a  generation  ago  which  was  never  used  except 
on  great  occasions,  and,  with  its  inseparable  parlor-bed- 
room, was  sacred  to  company,  consumption  and  death. 
Fortunately,  the  physician  had  been  informed  of  the  in- 
tended festivity,  and  had  enjoined  that  a  fire  should  be 
kept  burning  in  this  prohi])ited  sanctuary  all  the  pre- 
vious day.  His  injunction  had  been  strictly  fulfilled,  and 
before  the  Captain's  arrival  the  Squire  had  been  installed 
in  this  spare-room  to  entertain  the  visitor  until  the 
dinner  hour,  which,  with  especial  reference  to  the  con- 


PARTNliJm.  141 

veuieuce  of  the  visitor,  was  put  at  three  o'clock,  thus 
splitting  the  difterence  between  the  dinner  hour  of  the 
farm-house  and  that  of  the  mansion.  During  this  time 
the  mysteries  of  housewifery  demanded  the  attention 
of  Mrs.  Kortright,  and  the  two  men  wfere  left  to  them- 
selves. 

There  could  not  be  a  greater  contrast.  The  Squire, 
thin  and  pallid  from  his  two  months  of  suffering,  occu- 
pied the  plain  chintz-covered  sofa.  His  beard  had  not 
been  cut  since  his  illness,  and  formed  a  grizzly  stubble 
over  his  chin.  His  hands  were  white  and  skinny  and  the 
left  seemed  drawn  and  weak.  One  leg  was  flexed  and  the 
toes  incurved  by  the  force  of  the  disease  that  had  racked 
his  frame  and  only  spared  his  life  at  the  price  of  liis 
activity.  It  was  a  heavy  ransom  for  a  man  of  his  stir- 
ring habit  to  pay  for  the  bare  privilege  of  existence.  He 
was  beyond  danger — at  least  the  ijhysician  thought  so — 
but  he  was  rigorously  commanded  not  to  venture  bej'ond 
the  threshold  until  the  summer  sunshine  had  opened  the 
doors  and  equalized  the  temperature  within  and  without. 
Even  then  it  was  doubtful  if  he  would  ever  walk  erect 
and  without  the  aid  of  a  staft'  again.  He  would  live — con- 
fined to  a  chair,  hobbling  about  on  crutches  or  chained 
to  a  staff— a  life  that  had  little  charm  to  one  who  had 
been  accustomed  to  bid  defiance  to  nature,  whose 
strength  had  been  the  pride  of  his  youth  and  the  boast 
of  his  manhood.  He  felt  the  bitterness  of  his  lot  as  he 
saw  Captain  Hargrove,  in  the  glory  of  his  prime,  broad- 
chested,  round,  full-limbed  ;  a  flush  upon  his  dark  cheek  ; 
his  eye  full  of  fire,  and  his  step  firm  and  elastic  with 
something  of  the  tendency  to  "brace"  which  is  almost 
always  perceptible  in  the  walk  of  one  accustomed  to  a  sea- 
faring life.  It  was  with  something  of  envy,  therefore, 
that  he  said  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Kortright  had  withdrawn  : 

"  I'm  afraid  ye'll  find  me  mighty  dull  company,  Cap- 
tain." 


143  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

"On  the  conti'ary,"  said  the  Captain,  "a  chat  with 
you  is  just  what  I  would  have  chosen  had  it  heen  left 
for  me  to  say  how  I  would  like  to  pass  the  day." 

"It's  very  good  of  j^ou  to  say  so.  Captain,"  said  the 
Squire,  not  without  surprise,  yet  evidently  pleased  at 
this  hearty  speech,  "but  it  will  be  hard  to  make  me 
believe  that  a  man  who  has  been  upon  his  back  for  two 
months  with  this  miserable  pain  racking  him  most  all 
the  time,  can  be  very  good  company  for  any  one." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Hargrove,  as  he  seated  himself  in 
a  large  rocking-chair  near  the  fire,  "  this  is  one  of 
the  very  reasons  I  want  to  talk  with  you.  If  you 
were  well  and  busy  you  would  have  no  time  to  think  of 
what  I  want  most  to  say,  and  perhaps  I  might  not 
care  about  trusting  you,  either." 

"If  it's  that  woman  Lida  you  are  referring  to.  Cap- 
tain, I  may  as  well  say  at  once  that  I  don't  know  any- 
thing more  about  her  than  you  do." 

"  Nor  half  as  much,  Mr.  Kortright.  I  am  well  aware  of 
that,  and  you  have  reason  to  be  thankful  for  the  fact,  too. " 

"How  so?" 

"No  matter.  She  has  no  connection  with  what  I 
wish  to  speak  of  now,  at  least  not  directly,  and  it  won't 
pay  to  spend  time  in  discussing  her." 

"Well,  just  as  you  please,"  said  Kortright,  evidently 
not  ijleased  himself  that  the  other  did  not  intend  to 
pursue  the  topic  he  had  introduced. 

"  Not  that  I  would  be  unwilling  to  tell  you  all  I  know 
of  her,  but  the  story  is  a  long  one,  and  I  hai-dly  feel  like 
undertaking  it  to-day." 

"I  'spect  not,"  said  the  other,  with  a  caustic  dryness 
of  tone  that  did  not  escape  the  attention  of  the  visitor, 
who  laughed  quietly  as  he  said  : 

"Queer,  isn't  it,  that  a  man  should  be  regarded  with 
suspicion  because  of  his  good  deeds,  while  perhaps  his 
evil  ones  bring  him  only  respect  ?" 


PARTNERS.  143 

"I  don't  knoAV  'bout  that,"  began  Kortrigbt  argu- 
mentativcly. 

"Nor  I,  as  a  rule,"  interrupted  Hargrove;  "neither 
do  I  care  whether  it  is  generally  true  or  not.  I  was 
only  speaking  of  my  own  ease.  I  never  thought  of  it  till 
lately.  Somehow,  since  your  boy  has  been  with  us  I  seem 
to  myself  like  one  just  wakened  out  of  a  long  sleep." 

"  I  hope  he  hasn't  disturbed  you,"  said  Kortright,  with 
a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"  Disturbed  me  ?  Oh,  no  ;  he  fits  in  as  if  he  had  been 
the  missing  link  between  Sturmhold  and  the  world." 

" Martin  is  a  good  boy." 

"  Ha,  ha  !"  laughed  Hargrove,  "  that  is  just  what  my 
Hilda  is  always  saying.  By  the  way.  Squire,  it  is  mar- 
velous how  those  two  children  seem  to  suit  each  other. 
They  haven't  found  a  point  of  difference  yet,  and  seem 
to  grow  fonder  of  each  other  every  day." 

"I'm  glad  on't,  Captain.  The  little  girl  must  have 
had  a  lonesome  life  afore  he  came." 

"Well,  I  suppose  she  did  ;  though  I  never  thought  of 
it.  The  truth  is,  Mr.  Kortright,"  he  added  solemnly, 
"  I  have  had  a  burden  to  bear  ever  since  her  birth  which 
no  one  could  share  with  me,  and  which  has  left  me  very 
little  opportunity  for  other  things." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Squire,  as  Hargrove  paused,  not  be- 
cause he  meant  to  assent  to  what  had  been  said  but 
because  he  did  not  know  what  else  to  say. 

"  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  or  some  other  good  man  all 
about  it,  but  I  can't.  That's  the  trouble  of  the  matter. 
I  undertook  to  do  a  good  thing — at  least  I  thought  it  was 
good  and  kind,  but  it  has  brought  a  heap  of  sorrow  and 
misunderstanding.  There's  that  girl  Lida,  now  ;  I  set 
her  free,  gave  her  a  home,  and  shut  all  society  out  of 
my  house  that  she  might  be  undisturbed,  and  now  am 
regarded  with  horror  throughout  the  valley  here,  be- 
cause she  ran  away." 


144  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

"There  is  some  feeling  about  it,  certainly,"  said  the 
Squii'e. 

"Feeling!  Bluebeard  was  an  amiable  man  in  com- 
parison with  me,  taking  my  neighljors'  estimate," 

The  master  of  Sturmhold  laughed  pleasantly  as  he 
spoke,  as  though  the  neighbors'  opinion  of  him  was  not 
a  matter  of  grave  importance  after  all. 

"Well,  he  continued,  "the  girl  Lida  made  me  a  deal 
of  trouble  when  she  left,  but  it  was  nothing  to  the  trouble 
she  had  made  by  staying,  I  hardly  realized  it  before  ; 
but  when  she  was  gone  and  your  boy  came,  I  seemed  to 
have  lost  a  load  that  had  been  on  my  shoulders  so  long 
that  I  had  almost  forgotten  how  it  bent  me  down." 

"I confess.  Captain,"  said  Kortright,  "I can't  under- 
stand the  matter,  an'  as  you  don't  seem  inclined  to  tell 
me  all  about  it,  perhaps  you'd  better  not  say  anything  at 
all,  an'  so  not  start  my  curiosity." 

"I've  no  fear  of  that,  sir,"  ansAvered  Hargrove,  "If 
it  was  my  secret  I  'd  tell  it  in  a  minute,  but  it  concerns 
every  one  else  whom  it  touches  more  nearly  than  it 
does  me  ;  and  yet  I  am  the  only  one  that  knows  the 
whole  of  it." 

"That  must  be  unpleasant,  anj^how." 

"Unpleasant !  It  has  made  me  a  hermit  and  built  a 
cave  about  me.  No  wonder  Hilda  was  lonesome,  as  you 
say.  I  never  thought,  when  I  undertook  this  job,  that 
she  would  come  to  need  anybody  but  a  nurse.  In  fact, 
I  didn't  think  of  anything." 

"That's  the  way  mostly  with  what  folks  go  into  for 
the  pleasure  of  the  present  minute,"  said  the  elder  man 
severely. 

"Oh,  but  I  didn't  go  into  this,  Squire,  at  all.  It  just 
spread  itself  over  me  without  so  much  as  saying  'by 
your  leave.'  I  wasn't  even  indiscreet,  except  in  picking 
up  a  load  heavier  than  I  could  carry." 

"See   here,  Captain,"  said   the   Squire  energetically, 


PARTNhJltH.  14r, 

"you  and  I  ain't  much  more'n  strangers,  but  I  want  to 
say  to  you  plainly  tliat  1  don't  want  to  know  anything 
about  the  matter  tliat  you're  referrin'  to.  I'm  just  as 
sure  as  that  I'm  lyin'  here  that  it's  somethin'  growin' 
out  of  slaver}^,  and  I  don't  want  the  i-esponsibility  of 
carry  in'  any  of  its  sins.'' 

"There's  where  you're  wrong,  Squire,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain, with  a  touch  of  triumph  in  his  voice.  "All  the 
trouble  in  this  case  has  come  from  liberty  instead  of 
slavery.  There  would  have  been  no  burden  on  my  back 
if  I  had  not  tried  to  make  a  slave  happy  by  giving  her 
freedom." 

"Aye,  that  is  your  logic,"  said  Kortright  almost  bit- 
terly, "  because  a  day  of  freedom  does  not  heal  the  evil 
of  generations  of  slavery,  you  say  it  causes  the  ills  it 
only  drags  out  into  the  light  of  day  so  that  they  can  be 
seen.'' 

"  1  don't  know  about  that,"  responded  Hargrove  curt- 
ly. "  I  believe  that  negro  slavery  is  a  better  thing  than 
negro  liberty.  Abstractly,  I  dislike  slavery  as  much  as 
you  or  any  one  else.  I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  it  in 
one  country  and  another,  and  honestly  wish  w^e  had 
never  had  it  here.  But  then  I  should  want  to  be  rid  of 
the  African,  too." 

"He  wouldn't  be  here  if  he  hadn't  been  brought," 
said  the  other  significantly,  watching  Hargrove  keenly 
as  he  spoke. 

"True,"  said  Hargrove  carelessly,  "but  here  he  is, 
and  here  he  is  likely  to  stay.  The  only  question — if  it 
is  a  question — is  /loio  he  shall  stay." 

"He  can't  stay  here  much  longer  as  a  slave,  that's 
certain." 

"  I  cannot  see  why  you  think  so.  A  few  fanatics 
make  a  great  deal  of  noise,  but  slavery  has  grown 
stronger  every  year  since  the  formation  of  our  govern- 
ment." 


14G  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

"The  steeple's  kept  gittin'  higher,  that's  a  fact;  hut 
how  about  the  underpinnin* '?" 

"I  don't  see  but  it  stands  on  just  as  good  a  founda- 
tion as  the  government  itself." 

"  That  may  be — that  may  be,"  meditatively. 

"If  the  government  stands  I  don't  see  how  slavery 
can  help  standing  with  it.  That  is  my  view,  Squire, 
candidly.  I  wish  we  had  never  had  slavery,  nor  the 
negro,  either ;  but  having  the  negro,  I  don't  see  how  we 
can  get  along  without  slaver}'.  I  hope  you  understand 
me." 

"Yes,  I  guess  I  do,"  said  Kortright,  raising  himself 
on  his  elbow  and  looking  at  the  other  with  eyes  that 
burned  like  live  coals  in  the  ashen  pallor  of  his  face, 
"  and  I  want  you  to  understand  me,  too.  If  we've  got 
to  have  slavery  in  order  to  save  the  nation,  I  don't  see 
any  use  in  savin'  on't.  I'm  sorry,  myself,  that  the  negro 
is  in  the  country,  but  bein'  here,  I  'd  rather  try  to  get 
along  with  him  as  a  free  man  than  see  the  country  go 
on  heapin'  up  wrong,  j^ear  after  year,  by  the  wholesale, 
as  we  are  doin'  now." 

"Well,"  laughed  Hargrove,  "there's  no  mistaking 
that.  You  would  rather  the  country  should  perish  than 
slavery  live." 

"  I  would  rather  see  the  best  machine  man  ever  de- 
vised broken  to  pieces  than  made  the  instrument  of  op- 
pression and  wrong." 

"Well,  well,  we  can  never  agree  upon  that  subject, 
so  we  need  not  discuss  it." 

"  I  s'pose  'twould  be  a  waste  of  time.  You  look  at 
it  one  way  and  I  another,  and  we're  both  a  little  set  in 
our  way,  probably. " 

Harrison  Kortright  smiled  grimly  as  he  settled  him- 
self upon  his  couch  again.  The  younger  man  looked 
at  him  with  amused  expression  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said : 


PARTNERS.  147 

"I  reckon,  Squire,  you  would  be  surprised  to  know 
that  at  this  very  time  1  am  in  very  had  odor  in  Carolina 
1)ecause  I  am  considered  a  dangerous  enemy  of  '  the  in- 
stitution.' " 

"You?"  lifting  his  rugged  brows  and  surveying  the 
man  who  sat  before  him,  critically. 

"Yes,  I." 

"  I  think  I  should,"  emphatically. 

"Then  listen." 

Hargrove  drew  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket  and  read  : 

"Facts  which  have  come  to  our  knowledge  warrant  us 
in  cautioning  the  people  of  Clayburn  County  against  one  of 
her  sons  who  has  turned  traitor  to  the  South  and  her  in- 
stitutions. People  thought  it  sti'ange,  when,  some  years 
ago,  a  certain  gentleman  sold  his  plantation  in  the  vicinity 
of  Amity  Lake  and  removed  to  the  bleak  hills  of  New 
York ;  but  no  one  supposed  that  a  man  who  owed  his 
fortune  and  his  place  in  society  to  the  chivalrous  watch- 
care  of  Colonel  Peter  Eighmie  could  ever  become  a  rene- 
gade to  the  land  of  his  birth.  There  was  some  comment 
on  his  folly  in  taking  with  him  to  a  free  State  and  there 
manumitting  a  considerable  number  of  his  most  valuable 
negroes,  but,  as  they  were  his  own  property,  no  one  was 
inclined  to  regard  it  as  anything  more  than  the  harmless 
freak  of  a  wealthy  planter.  Indeed,  it  was  generally  attrib- 
uted to  the  influence  of  his  foreign  wife,  who  had  imbibed 
a  foolish  prejudice  against  the  patriarchal  institution. 
So,  although  there  had  never  been  any  reason  to  suppose 
that  her  husband  shared  her  folly,  no  one  believed  it 
possible  that  when  he  became  the  executor  of  the  son 
of  his  benefactor  he  would  either  squander  the  estate 
through  his  abolition  fanaticism  or  attempt  to  meddle 
with  the  domestic  relations  of  his  neighbors.  It  was 
known  that  there  had  been  an  unvisual  number  of  run- 
aways from  that  vicinity,  but  no  one  suspected  that  one 
who  had  been  an  officer  of  the  United  States  navy  would 
ever  descend  so  low  as  to  become  a  kidnapper  of  his  neigh- 


148  JfOT  PLOW^^HARES. 

bois'  slaves.  By  the  capture  of  a  gang  of  runaways,  in 
Hurricane  Swamp  last  week,  however,  it  was  learned  that 
they  were  waiting  to  be  taken  North  in  his  sloop.  It 
seems  that  she  has  hardly  ever  crossed  the  bar  withovit 
taking  a  stolen  cargo.  It  has  been  learned  almost  to  a 
certainty  that  on  the  last  trip  he  took  one  of  Colonel 
Granby's  most  valuable  house-servants,  a  likely  woman, 
who  had  taken  up*  with  a  negro  named  Unthank,  the 

*This  term,  "taken  up  with,"  was  one  of  the  unconscious  testi- 
monies of  slavery  to  its  own  demoralizing  tendencies.  It  was  used 
to  express  the  relation,  as  nearly  as  might  be,  of  husband  and 
wife  existing  between  slaves.  "  The  fact,"  said  the  Chief  Justice 
of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  State  iu  which  our  story  Is  located, 
"that  two  slaves  have  taken  up  with  each  other,  no  matter  under 
what  pretended  ceremony  of  marriage,  and  have  lived  together 
as  if  in  the  marital  relation,  in  no  sense  constitutes  them  hus- 
band and  wife,  nor  clothes  them  with  any  of  the  rights  and  privi- 
leges of  that  relation."  The  influence  of  this  doctrine  is  no  doubt 
distinctly  visible  in  the  morals  of  the  race  to  which  it  was  applied. 
Unquestioual)ly  this  doctrine  is  absolutely  indispensable  to  the 
peace  of  society  where  the  relation  of  simple  chattelism  in  man 
is  maintained.  The  thing — mere  property,  cannot  at  the  same 
time  be  clothed  with  the  rights  of  a  husband  and  father.  The 
chief  difierence  between  American  slavery  and  that  which  the 
world  has  known  in  other  lands  and  ages  was  that  it  did  not 
pass  through  the  intermediary  stages  of  serfdom  in  its  down- 
fall. The  American  slave  was  transformed  into  a  freeman 
without  development,  without  instruction ;  one  day  a  slave, 
the  next  a  citizen — changed  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  Hith- 
erto the  road  from  slavery  to  freedom  has  always  been  a  harsh 
and  rugged  one.  One  right  after  another  has  been  won  with 
difficulty  and  danger.  Blood  has  flowed  and  generations  of  strug- 
gle have  engendered  a  fortitude  worthy  of  the  liberty  that  came 
at  length  as  its  reward.  This  is  the  universal  history  of  European 
development,  and  out  of  these  struggles  grew  up  the  peoples 
that  make  what  we  term  the  civilized  world  of  to-day.  Whether' 
the  sudden  transplantation  that  marked  the  downfall  of  our 
American  system,  lacking,  as  it  did,  all  that  opportunity  for 
gradual  growth  which  serfdom  and  feudalism  afforded,  will  show 
like  beneficent  results,  is  a  question  which  only  time  can  answer. 
It  is  not  yet  decided,  and  the  claim  of  the  Southern  white  man  of 
to-day  that  two  races,  so  distinctly  marked  in  outward  habit  of 
body  and  so  widely  separated  by  previous  development,  can  only 


PARTNERS.  149 

body-servant  of  this  man  before  he  was  taken  out  of 
the  State  and  freed  by  his  fanatical  master.  This  man 
Unthank  is  known  to  be  a  very  impudent  and  dangerous 
negro,  who  has  been  coming  to  the  State  in  comj^any  with 
his  former  master,  in  open  defiance  of  the  law  that  forbids 
free  negroes  to  come  into  the  State.  We  learn  that  the 
people  of  that  part  of  the  county  are  justly  incensed  at 
these  facts  and  have  organized  to  give  both  Unthank  and 
his  master  such  a  welcome  as  they  deserve,  should  they 
ever  dare  show  themselves  in  that  region  again." 

"Meaning  you?"  asked  the  listener  on  the  chintz- 
covered  lounge,  gazing  in  undisguised  amazement  at  the 
reader. 

"Undoubtedly,  meaning  me,"  responded  Hargrove, 
Avith  a  quiet  laugh  at  the  other's  surprise.  "  You  see  I 
am  bound  to  have  the  name  of  kidnapper,  wherever  I 
go.  It  must  be  something  in  my  face  that  condemns 
me,  or  perhaps  it  runs  in  the  blood.  The  Hargroves  of 
a  few  generations  back  are  said  to  have  done  a  land- 
office  business  in  that  line." 

"You  are  sure  it  ain't  in  your  actions,  I  suppose?" 
said  Kortright  dryly. 

"Well,  no,"  said  Hargrove  in  a  tone  of  candor,  "I 
am  not.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  half  of  the  notion  that 
I'm  guilty  of  the  charge  in  Carolina." 

live  together  in  a  relation  in  which  one  is  subordinate  to  the  other, 
and  controlled  by  it,  is  a  dogma  that  will  be  sneered  at  only  by  the 
fool  who  is  too  dull  to  read  the  past  and  too  blind  to  fear  for 
the  future.  We  may  hope — we  must  hope — but  that  very  hope 
should  teach  us  that  simple  liberty  is  not  all  that  is  required  to 
transform  the  slave  into  a  freeman.  The  African  of  America 
must  have  time  to  learn  very  much  and  to  forget  still  more  before 
the  Proclamation  of  Emancipation  will  have  become  effectual. 
On  this  fact  depends  the  duty  of  to-day.  The  Slave  may  be 
emancipated  ;  the  Freeman  must  be  developed.  We  may  believe 
in  a  result  consonant  with  liberty  and  our  ideas  of  justice  ;  but 
the  fact  that  such  an  outcome  is  not  demonstrable  should  teach 
the  people  of  the  whole  land  that  the  end  of  duty  is  not  yet. 


150  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

"AVhat!" 

"  I  think  I  am  guilty  of  kidnapping,  as  charged  in  that 
paper,  and  you,  too." 

"  I  ?    How  do  you  make  that  out  ?" 

"I  have  reason  to  beheve  that  Un thank  has  been 
bringing  one  or  more  of  his  friends  back  on  the  sloop, 
every  time  I  have  been  down  there  for  a  year  or  more, 
and  I  suppose  you  have  been  helping  him  away  with 
them." 

"That's  where  you've  shot  mighty  wide  of  the  mark, 
Captain.  I  don't  mind  saying  that  I  Avould  do  it  in  a 
minute,  if  the  chance  came  ;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
never  did  help  a  runaway,  even  Avith  a  meal  of  victuals, 
till  the  night  l)efore  the  'lection.  That  woman's  story 
made  me  an  Abolitionist. ' ' 

"  So  ?    And  what  was  her  story,  please  ?" 

"No  matter,  Captain.  I'm  willing  to  give  up  that 
you  didn't  want  to  kidnap  her ;  but  that  you  didn't 
mean  her  harm  of  any  kind  I'm  not  quite  so  sure." 

"  You  think  a  Southern  man  cannot  deal  fairly  with 
a  man  or  woman  having  a  black  skin  ?" 

"Well,  it  don't  matter  what  I  think.  What  she  said 
to  me  I  suppose  she  told  in  confidence,  and  I  have  no 
right  to  go  and  repeat  it  to  one  she  was  afraid  of,  to  say 
the  least.     You  see  that  yourself" 

"You  are  quite  right  in  that,"  said  Hargrove,  "but 
knowing  the  girl's  history  as  well  as  I  do,  I  had  a  curi- 
osity to  learn  how  much  of  it  she  would  tell.  I  assure 
you.  Squire,  that  girl  has  a  story  well  worth  hearing, 
without  any  fiction  being  added." 

"The  one  she  told  me  changed  my  politics,  and  I 
ain't  sure  but  it  colored  my  religion  just  a  trifle." 

"And  the  real  story  has  changed  my  life,"  said  Har- 
grove, as  he  rose  and  walked  moodily  up  and  down  the 
room.  "  I  suppose  I  kidnapped  her,  too.  Confound  it, 
Mr.  Kortright,  do  you  believe  in  a  devil  ?" 


PARTNERS.  151 

"It's  the  one  thing  I  never  had  a  doubt  about,"  an- 
swered Kortright  doggedly. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  a  mere  theoretical  devil ;  I  mean 
a  being  that  cannot  help  doing  evil,  even  when  meaning 
to  do  good— one  whose  acts  are  all  cursed  with  the 
venom  of  destruction,  no  matter  how  well  intended." 

"  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  that  must  be  the  very  way 
the  devil  is  situated." 

"And  that  is  the  way  it  is  with  this  girl,  Lida.  Poor 
thing  !  she's  had  a  hard  time.  I  don't  think  she  ever 
meant  any  one  harm,  but  her  very  presence  is  a  curse. 
I  never  did  her  anything  but  kindness  in  my  life,  but 
she  brought  a  curse  with  her  into  my  house,  and  I  have 
not  been  so  happy  in  years  as  since  she  left  it." 

"Well,  she  ain't  likely  to  trouble  you  much  more, 
and,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  you're  both  very  well  rid  of 
each  other." 

"That's  the  trouble.  Squire,"  said  Hargrove,  stop- 
ping short  before  his  companion.  "  I  am  not  rid  of  her, 
and  cannot  be  for  many  a  year.  She  is  hung  around  my 
neck  like  a  mill-stone.  Even  now,  I  am  compelled  to  go 
away  in  a  few  days  to  face  any  amount  of  danger  and 
trouble  on  her  account." 

"Well,  Captain,  I'm  sorry  for  both  of  you— you  and 
the  woman,  I  mean ;  but  if  you  won't  tell  me  what  it's 
all  about  and  I  won't  tell  you  what  she  said,  what  sense 
is  there  in  our  talking  around  it  all  day  ?  To  change 
the  subject— your  speaking  about  mill-stones  brought  it 
to  my  mind — you  know  that  farm  of  yours  just  across 
the  creek,  to  the  east  of  my  land  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  sell  that  tract  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.     Why  ?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  the  doctor  says  I'm  not  likely  ever  to 
be  of  much  use  on  the  farm  any  more — may  not  be 
anywhere— but  at  least  must  look  for  some  sort  of  busi- 


152  HOT   PLOWSHARES. 

ness  that  will  keep  me  out  of  the  weather.  Now,  I 
never  had  any  turn  for  merchandising ;  and  there's  the 
big  fall  in  the  creek  there,  I've  always  thought  would 
make  somebody's  fortune,  some  time.  I  ain't  rich,  but 
I've  a  mind  to  try  and  build  a  mill  there,  if  I  can  get 
the  property  on  easy  terms  and  long  time.  The  dam 
would  back  the  water  up  on  my  meadow,  anyhow,  so 
I've  got  a  sort  of  an  interest  in  it,  you  see." 

"Yes,"  said  Hargrove,  still  pacing  back  and  forth 
across  the  room,  "I've  thought  such  a  thing  might  be 
done,  myself.     How  much  power  could  be  got  there  ?" 

"Power?  I  don't  know.  I  ain't  a  mechanic,  ex- 
actly, but  if  a  good  dam  was  put  across  that  narrow 
place,  there  ain't  a  water-power  in  this  region  to  com- 
pare with  it.     Why,  it  would  run  anything." 

"  Have  you  money  enough  to  develop  it  ?" 

"  Not  as  it  ought  to  be  done  ;  but  I'd  do  enough  to 
hold  it,  make  a  living,  pay  the  interest  and  wait  for  a 
chance  to  do  better." 

"Suppose  you  had  the  money?"  pausing  and  looking 
down  at  the  man  on  the  lounge. 

"  If  I  had  the  money  I'd  make  that  tract  worth  more  'n 
all  the  land  you've  got  up  and  down  the  valley." 

"  Yes,"  slowly  resuming  his  walk. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly  what  'twould  be,  and  I  wouldn't 
be  in  no  great  hurry  to  decide  neither  ;  but,  if  I  had  the 
money,  I'd  put  in  a  dam  there  that  wouldn't  be  in  no 
danger  from  high  water,  and  then  I'd  look  around  for 
something  for  it  to  do.  No  fear  but  I'd  find  something. 
The  only  trouble  would  be  to  determine  what  would  be 
the  best." 

"  Do  you  think  you  would  be  able  to  attend  to  it  ?" 

"Well,  Captain,  I  don't  never  expect  to  be  well  again. 
I  s'pose  I'll  be  a  sort  of  half-cripple  the  rest  of  my  life. 
I  Avon't  be  able  to  c?o,  but  think  maybe  I'll  be  able  to 
look  after  what  others  are  doiu'." 


PARTNERS.  153 

"  A  much  more  important  thing.  The  great  trouble 
with  all  of  our  American  work  is  that  there  is  not 
enough  overlooking.  The  laborer,  being  a  peer  of  the 
employer,  naturally  resents  supervision,  and  so  he  is 
told  what  is  to  be  done  and  left  to  do  it  in  his  own 

way." 

"  It's  a  good  dear  so,"  assented  Kortright. 

"  How  much  money  would  it  take  ?"  asked  Hargrove. 

"Oh,  that  depends  on  how  much  is  done.  It  might 
take  ten  thousand,  and  five  times  that  might  not  be  too 
much." 

"Squire  Kortright!"   stopping  suddenly  in  front  of 

him. 

"Well?"  quietly. 

"I  am  a  rich  man." 

"I  s'pose  so." 

"  And  I  believe  you  are  an  honest  one." 

"  I'm  glad  you  think  so,"  dryly. 

"  I  do,  and  I  will  furnish  you  all  the  money  you  need, 
on  one  condition." 

"AVhat's  that?"  asked  the  Squire  cautiously,  betray- 
ing no  more  emotion  than  if  he  had  merely  been  offered 
the  most  ordinary  of  daily  favors. 

"I  came  here  to-day  to  make  a  proposition  to  you  of 
another  sort.  Yovir  suggestion  opens  a  better  way.  As 
I  said,  I  am  a  rich  man,  to-day.  But  I  have  under- 
taken an  enterprise  which  is  full  of  peril.  If  I  should 
die  to-morrow,  it  is  quite  possible  that  my  estate  would 
be  swaUowed  up  in  the  litigation  that  would  ensue.  I 
have  only  my  daughter  to  care  for.  She  will  be  my  only 
heir.  But,  if  I  should  die  while  she  is  yet  young,  she 
might  have  no  estate  when  grown  to  womanhood,  Now, 
I  want  to  provide  against  contingencies,  and  I  will  tell 
you  what  I  will  do.  I  will  sell  you  the  land  at  a  nomi- 
nal price,  and  will  give  you  twenty-five  thousand  dol- 
lars to  expend  in  its  improvements,  on  condition  that 


154  HOT  PLOWBUAEES. 

my  little  girl  shall  have  a  half-interest  in  the  business 
when  she  comes  to  be  tAventy-one  years  of  age." 

"Meaning  little  Hilda,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Of  course." 

"And  you  want  I  should  give  you  what  sort  of  a 
bond  ?" 

"  None  at  all.  I  want  your  word  that  you  will  transfer 
this  interest  to  her,  if  you  should  be  living  at  that  time, 
and  that  you  will  leave  it  to  her  by  will  so  that  she 
might  not  lose  it  in  case  of  your  death." 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  Squire,  sitting  up,  regardless 
of  his  ailment,  and  looking  at  the  Captain  in  amaze- 
ment. "You  mean  to  trust  me  with  all  this  and  take 
no  instrument  of  writing  ?" 

"I  have  been  entrusted  with  much  more,  and  merely 
expect  you  to  be  as  faithful  as  I  have  been." 

"Oh,  I  can't  take  it.  Captain.  I  can't  take  it.  I  did 
think  of  borrowing  it  from  you,  if  you  could  let  me  have 
good  clean  money,  but  I  could  not  take  it  in  this  Avay  ; 
I  couldn't  do  it ;  I  couldn't  do  it.  I'm  much  obliged— 
ever  so  much  obliged — but  I  couldn't  do  it,  nohow." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  clean  money'  ?" 

"  Clean  money  V  Well,  you  must  excuse  me,  Captain, 
bvit — but  I  meant  money  that  wasn't  made  in— in  any 
way — that — that  " — 

"Kidnapping,  for  instance  ?"  sharply. 

"Well,  yes,"  responded  the  Squire,  his  self-control 
at  once  restored  by  the  other's  tone — "  that  or  anything 
else  that— that  a  man  of  my  convictions  couldn't  ap- 
prove of." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  couldn't  take  this,  then.  I  inherited 
a  part  of  it  from  the  Hargroves  of  Hargrove's  Quarter, 
who  were  a  tough  lot  in  their  day — wox'se  than  kidnap- 
pers, I'm  afraid— buccaneers — pirates,  perhaps." 

"Slave-holders,  at  least,  and  perhaps  slave-traders, 
loo,"  said  Kortright. 


PARTNERS.  155 

"Both,"  said  Hargrove,  resuming  his  seat. 

"And  you — how  have  you  used  it?"  asked  Kortright 
severely,  looking  under  his  eyebrows  at  the  other. 

"Me  ?  Oh,  I  took  a  little  that  I  had  left  after  build- 
ing Folly  Castle,  up  there,  and  put  it  into  the  'China 
trade. '  It  has  grown  from  a  little  to  a  good  deal,  and 
I  thought  I  would  draw  out  while  there  was  something 
to  be  had.  But  that  was  strictly  moral,"  he  added,  with 
a  laugh.  "We  took  tea  and  opium  one  way  and  mis- 
sionaries the  other." 

"I  s'pose  that's  the  way  of  trade,"  said  Kortright 
with  a  sigh. 

"  Squire,  I  don't  often  share  your  peculiar  notions, 
but  have  never  tried  to  change  them ;  still  I  do  think 
you  are  carrying  them  a  little  too  far.  I  wouldn't  like 
to  take  money  that  was  the  direct  result  of  crime,  my- 
self; but  can  you  follow  up  each  piece  of  gold,  and  refuse 
it  if  a  scoundrel's  hand  has  touched  it  since  it  left  the 
mint  ?" 

"No,  I  s'pose  not.  Perhaps  this  very  dollar,"  he 
added,  drawing  one  from  his  pocket,  "has  helped  pay  for 
cutting  some  man's  throat.  Yet  I  don't  know.  Some- 
how, I've,  never  known  money  that  was  made  in  a  wrong 
way  to  bring  much  enjoyment  to  them  that  had  it." 

"That's  what  they  say  about  the  '  nigger -trader's' 
gains  in  my  country,"  said  Hargrove. 

"  I  should  think  that  would  curse  the  purest  gold  that 
ever  was  minted  !"  said  Kortright  vehemently. 

"Yet  you  were  willing  to  borrow  money  of  me  that, 
in  its  origin,  was,  as  you  fully  believed,  stained  with 
this  very  traffic." 

"That  is  so,"  said  Kortright  meditatively.  "That 
is  so.  Perhaps  I  was  wrong.  I  s'pose  I  must  have 
been.  You  see,  I'd  been  thinkin'  of  this,  day  after  day, 
as  I  lay  here,  and  had  kind  o'  got  my  mind  set  on  hav- 
ing the  money,  somehow,  and  d^in'   this   thing  that  I 


150  HOT  PLOWSUARES. 

s'pose  has  been  lyin'  in  my  mind,  I  don't  know  how 
many  years.  I  must  have  been  wrong,  though,"  he 
added  humbly,  "  for  why  shouldn't  it  be  just  as  wrong 
for  me  to  borrow  such  money  as  for  another  to  use 
it?" 

"  There's  this  difference.  Squire,  and  I  think  it  makes 
all  the  difference  between  ill-gotten  gains  and  'clean 
money,'  as  you  called  it.  If  the  doer  of  the  wrong  uses 
the  money,  the  curse  of  his  evil  may  very  naturally  at- 
tach to  it ;  but  I  do  not  see  how  by  any  justice  or  rea- 
son the  innocent  holder  should  be  affected  by  it." 

"Perhaps  not,  perhaps  not," sighed  Kortright.  "I'm 
sure  I  don't  know."  He  sank  back  on  the  lounge  and 
was  silent  for  a  little  while  and  then  said,  "  You  want 
to  do  this  for  your  little  girl  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  I  want  to  do  it  for  my  boy." 

"  Then  why  not  make  them  partners  ?" 

"How?" 

"If  you  must  have  an  instrument  of  writing  to  wit- 
ness the  trust,  why  not  make  yourself  a  trustee  for  them 
jointly,  binding  yourself  to  convey  to  them  equal  moieties 
on  coming  of  age  ?"  • 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"  I'm  a  good  deal  older  than  you.  Captain." 

"But  will  very  likely  outlive  me.  Whether  you  do 
or  not,  a  reasonable  support  will  be  secured  to  the  child, 
whatever  may  be  the  result  of  the  complications  that 
now  threaten  me." 

"I'll  do  it.  Captain!"  said  Kortright,  sitting  up  and 
reaching  out  his  hand  to  clasp  that  of  the  other.  "I'll 
do  it,  if  Martha  hasn't  any  objection.  I  didn't  think  I'd 
ever  be  mixed  up  with  slavery  or  its  results.  I  didn't 
want  to  be ;  but  this  seems  kind  o'  thrust  upon  me. 
My  boy  and  your  girl  shall  be  equal  partners,  and  I  \\\\\ 
be  a  faithful  trustee  for  them.     May  God  so  deal  with 


PARTNERS.  157 

me  as  I  shall  deal  with  them,"  he  added,  solemnly  look- 
ing upwards. 

So  the  matter  was  settled.  The  bell  rang  for  the 
Christmas  dinner.  The  children  came  rushing  from  the 
barn,  their  clothes  sadly  rumpled  and  not  without  stain 
and  rent,  but  with  glowing  cheeks  and  ravenous  appe- 
tites. The  company  that  gathered  round  the  farmer's 
table  was  a  happy  one,  despite  the  infirmity  of  the 
master  of  the  house.  Even  he,  thought  his  observ- 
ing wife,  was  more  cheerful  and  like  himself  than  he  had 
been  since  his  sickness,  and  her  heart  was  made  glad 
when  she  saw  Captain  Hargrove  enjoying  the  results 
of  her  labors  with  a  gusto  that  was  unmistakable.  So 
the  day  was  a  happy  one,  and  the  Christmas  blessing 
rested  upon  all.  The  Squire  had  a  new  lease  of  life  in 
the  prospect  of  doing  what  he  had  long  dreamed  of  as  a 
possibility,  but  never  quite  expected  to  realize.  The 
master  of  Sturmhold  had  the  look  of  one  who  had  ac- 
complished a  cherished  purpose,  while  the  good  mis- 
tress of  Paradise  Bay  rejoiced  in  the  happiness  resulting 
from  her  scheme.  The  present  had  been  made  bright. 
The  future  fortunately  cannot  always  fling  its  shadows 
before. 

The  two  "partners,"  after  a  day  of  rollicking  fun  at 
the  old  homestead,  went  back  to  Sturmhold  at  night, 
ignorant  of  the  eventful  crisis  in  their  lives  which  it 
marked. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  NEW  DAY. 

The  weeks  passed  by,  and  still  the  master  of  Sturm- 
hold  delayed  the  departure  of  which  he  had  spoken  in  his 
conversation  with  Kortright.  The  arrangement  which 
had  been  then  agreed  upon  had  been  fully  consummated. 
The  tract  conveyed  was  much  larger  than  the  Squire  had 
dreamed  of  in  connection  with  his  project,  and  the  sum 
placed  in  his  hands  greater  than  he  had  asked.  In  return 
for  this  confidence,  Harrison  Kortright  had  included  in 
the  property  thus  held  in  trust  all  of  his  own  lands, 
except  a  small  tract  about  the  homestead. 

"I  couldn't  put  this  in,  you  see,"  he  said  to  Har- 
grove apologetically,  "because — well,  there's  no  knowin' 
what  might  happen,  and  I  wouldn't  like  to  be  entirely 
out  of  a  home,  nor  have  Martha  feel,  if  I  died,  that  she 
was  only  a  trustee  in  her  own  house." 

"Certainly  not,"  replied  Hargrove.  "I  had  no  idea 
of  your  doing  anything  of  the  kind.  Indeed,  I  thought 
that  your  care  and  attention  were  fully  equal  in  value 
to  my  investment,  and  I  was  very  willing  to  leave  it  in 
that  way." 

Mrs.  Kortright,  however,  was  opposed  to  the  reser- 
vation her  husband's  caution  had  made  in  her  behalf. 
The  project  seemed  to  have  captivated  the  good  woman's 
fancy  in  an  unusual  degree.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
fife  her  husband  had  risen  beyond  her  highest  ideal  of 
manhood.  The  boy-lover  who  had  gone  to  the  heathen 
as  an  emissary  of  that  Divine  love — prototype  of  the 
earthly  bliss  that  had  been  denied  to  him — shrank  to 
nothingness  in  her  esteem  in  comparison  with  the  man 
158 


.i  I^EW  DAT,  159 

Avho,  in  mature  years,  could  inafce  a  bed  of  pain  the  blrtii- 
place  of  a  new  life.  She  had  always  respected  her  hus- 
band's sturdy  will,  his  inflexible  integrity,  keen  and  true 
judgment  and  unfailing  self-poise  in  all  the  events  of 
common  life.  He  was  a  man  that  filled  to  perfection  her 
definition  of  a  husband.  Kind,  careful,  thoughtful  for 
every  need  of  his  family,  respected  by  all,  and  year  by 
year  rising  higher  and  higher  in  public  esteem — she  was 
proud  of  his  manly  completeness,  and  had  almost  uncon- 
sciously yielded  all  care  into  his  hands,  confident  that  he 
was  entirely  sufficient  for  all  the  earthly  needs  of  the 
denizens  of  Paradise  Bay.  She  had  lost  her  own  self- 
reliance,  or  rather  had  transferred  to  him  the  faith  she 
once  had  in  herself.  If  she  still  spoke  with  some  inde- 
pendence and  had  her  "notions,"  as  she  was  wont  to 
say,  it  was  only  in  accordance  with  a  suppressed  intui- 
tion. She  was  positive  only  where  she  knew  that  her 
husband's  convictions  would  not  run  counter  to  her  pre- 
ferences. Otherwise,  no  matter  how  keen  her  impression, 
she  was  sure  to  await  an  expression  of  his  opinion. 

All  this  had  been  a  matter  of  growth  with  Martha 
Kortright.  The  marriage  which  bound  her  to  her  hus- 
band had  not  been  completed  with  the  ceremony  that 
made  the  twain  one  flesh.  She  had  grown  toward  the 
nature  which  she  at  first  only  half  understood,  and  had 
contentedly  yielded  to  its  power,  little  by  little,  until 
Martha  Ermendorf  had  been  quite  forgotten  in  the  wife 
of  Harrison  Kortright.  In  all  this,  however,  there  had 
been  no  enthusiasm  and  very  little  pride.  She  was,  of 
course,  in  a  sense,  proud  of  the  confidence  and  esteem 
her  husband  had  won  among  his  neighbors,  but  the  ro- 
mantic element  in  her  nature  was  not  stirred  by  his 
character  or  achievements.  What  he  did  was  either  so 
commonplace,  or  done  so  much  as  a  matter  of  course, 
that  she  never  thought  of  him  as  a  hero.  Dawson  Fox, 
the  missionary,  was  the  hero  of  her  past ;  the  boy  Martin 


IGO  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

was  the  hero  of  her  future.  Even  in  the  tragic  scene  of 
the  election  day  her  husband's  part  was  quite  forgotten 
in  comparison  with  her  son's  daring  and  Captain  Har- 
grove's dramatic  gallantry.  Martin's  brave  attempt 
came  ever  to  her  mind  as  the  key-note  of  a  life  of  match- 
less heroism.  The  Captain,  as  he  hurled  the  rearing 
steed  back  upon  its  haunches,  seemed  a  king  of  men. 
But  the  husband,  half-clad,  pallid,  his  face  wrung  Avith 
agony  at  the  son's  danger,  was  only  a  matter  of  course 
— an  instrument  of  duty.  It  was  all  right  that  he  should 
do  as  he  did.  She  could  not  imagine  that  he  would  do 
otherwise  ;  but  it  never  occurred  to  her  that  there  Avas 
anything  uncommon  or  heroic  in  it.  She  had  lived  so 
long  in  intimate  relations  with  his  thought  that  she  had 
no  idea  that  the  transparent  soul  hid  heroism  under  the 
simple  guise  of  duty. 

His  plan  for  building  a  busy  city  out  of  the  foam  of 
the  great  waterfall  that  had  dashed  and  roared  by  the 
sleepy  hamlet  of  Skendoah  for  many  a  day,  unheeded 
by  those  who  saw  and  heard,  awakened  her  at  once  to 
the  consciousness  that  her  husband  was  of  no  common 
clay.  She  listened  to  his  plans,  grasped  his  idea  and  for 
the  first  time  realized  that  the  companion  of  her  life  was 
indeed  heroic.  He  had  been  husband,  father,  lover,  in 
a  sedate  and  solemn  sense,  these  many  days  ;  now  he  was 
more — the  one  man  to  whom  her  Avomanhood  bowed  in 
adoration.  So  she  was  stirred  to  rival  his  noble  idea  by 
a  self-sacrifice  that  should  shoAv  her  trust.  It  was  a 
sort  of  unconscious  penance  which  she  set  herself  to  do 
for  the  sake  of  this  man,  her  husband,  whom  she 
felt  she  had  robbed  of  half  his  due.  Wiser  counsels 
prevailed,  hoAvever,  and  through  the  aid  of  a  lawyer,  it 
Avas  finally  arranged  that  Harrison  Kortright  should 
hold  and  manage  the  combined  property,  receiving  him- 
self one-half  the  3'^early  income — or  more,  if  that  did 
not  amount    to  a  certain  sum— and   reserving  the  re- 


A  IfEW  DAY.  161 

mainder  with  the  principal  for  Hilda  and  Martin,  in 
equal  moieties,  to  be  given  to  each  at  majority  and  to  be 
held  by  them  as  partners  thereafter  until  they  should 
elect  to  terminate  the  relation. 

With  the  spring,  new  life  came  to  the  prisoner  of  the 
winter  at  Paradise  Bay.  The  world  was  in  the  light  of 
a  new  dawning.  The  great  West  had  been  made  greater. 
There  was  a  rvimor  of  gold  in  California.  A  few  enthusi- 
astic outcasts  had  groped  their  way  across  the  dun  sandy 
swells  to  a  new  Land  of  Promise  under  the  shadows  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains,  The  world  was  waking,  and  the 
telegraph  began  to  stretch  its  web  up  and  down  the  land, 
annihilating  distance  and  making  time  a  jest.  It  was 
then  that  Harrison  Kortright  undertook  the  work  for 
which  he  had  been  fitted  by  years  of  silent  thought  and 
that  self-reliance  that  comes  only  from  isolation  and  self- 
communion.  The  dream  of  his  life  was  now  about  to  be 
realized.  He  almost  forgot  the  grip  of  disease  upon  his 
distorted  hand  and  the  finger  of  pain  upon  his  flexed  and 
dragging  limb.  The  flesh  could  not  weigh  down  his 
buoyant  spirit,  and  the  voice  of  his  nightly  prayer  was 
fuller  of  triumphant  thanks  than  of  supplication  for 
strength.  He  had  dreamed  of  the  waterfall  from  boy- 
hood and  now  had  his  hand  upon  its  boisterous  strength. 
That  he  would  make  it  do  his  will  he  no  more  doubted 
than  did  Cromwell  the  issue  upon  Marston  Moor. 

The  time  was  favorable,  and  as  the  tidings  of  his  pro- 
ject spread,  every  one  who  heard  wondered  that  it  had 
not  been  undertaken  before.  Success  ran  to  meet  him 
in  his  new  endeavor.  Skendoah  awoke  from  its  slum- 
ber, and  waited  in  expectancy  for  the  coming  of  new 
feet  and  a  new  era.  When  the  spring  buds  burst  into 
flower  Martin  bade  adieu  to  Sturmhold,  the  new  life  that 
had  enchained  him  and  the  Princess  who  had  awakened 
him  with  her  kiss,  and  returned  to  give  the  aid  of  quick 
eyes  and  nimble  feet  to  his  father's  enterprise.      There 


162  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

were  tears  and  kisses  at  parting.  The  farmer's  boy 
found  Paradise  Bay  exceeding  dull  Avitliout  the  bright 
eyes  and  ruby  lips  that  wept  and  sobbed  for  him  at 
deserted  Sturmhold.  The  grief  of  both  was  assuaged 
only  by  the  promise  of  frequent  meeting  and  of  a  future 
reunion  when  the  torrent  had  been  tamed  and  the  master 
of  Sturmhold  should  go  no  more  away  from  its  delightful 
surroundings. 


CHAPTEK    XIV. 

THE   END   OF   THE   LAW. 

A  tal'l,  stately  man  of  middle  age,  with  a  mien  of 
peculiar  grace  and  dignity,  called  at  Sturmhold  one  day 
not  long  afterwards,  during  a  brief  absence  of  Captain 
Hargrove,  and  was  shown  into  the  library  to  await  his 
return.  In  person  the  visitor  was  one  who  would  any- 
where have  attracted  attention.  Fully  six  feet  in  height, 
well-knit  and  muscular  in  frame,  with  a  noble,  well- 
proportioned  head  set  on  broad  shouldei's,  he  was  a  fine 
specimen  of  self-reliant  manhood.  Add  to  this  an  ex- 
pressive face,  strong  features,  a  large,  brilliant,  kindly. 
eye,  a  musical,  sonorous  voice,  and  you  have  a  fair  pic- 
ture of  the  stranger  who  waited  patiently  for  Hargrove's 
return.  To  him  entered  Hilda,  restless  from  the  loss  of 
her  companion.  It  was  not  long  before  she  yielded  to 
the  fascinations  of  a  manner  which  few  could  resist,  and 
gave  her  fullest  confidence  to  one  whom  no  man  had 
ever  presumed  to  doubt.  When  Captain  Hargrove  re- 
turned he  was  handed  a  plain  card,  on  which  was  written 
the  name,  "  Jared  Clarkson,"  It  was  a  name  well 
known  in  that  region,  as  that  of  a  landholder  whose 
acres  were  numberless,  scattered  over  half  a  hundred 
counties  of  the  State.  Equally  noted  as  an  orator,  a 
philanthropist  and  a  financier,  he  was  a  man  of  remark- 
able character  and  of  great  personal  power,  but  so 
given  to  what  were  deemed  impracticable  vagaries  as 
to  be  held  in  very  trivial  esteem  in  any  public  capacity, 
while  the  regard  for  his  private  character  was  un- 
bounded. Hargrove  had  often  heard  of  him  and  had 
163 


164  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

no  little  curiosity  to  meet  him,  but  chance  had  never 
thrown  them  together.  He  wondered  what  this  man, 
who  Avas  chiefly  known  as  the  leader  of  the  most  ad- 
vanced ideas  upon  social  and  political  subjects,  could 
want  with  him — the  one  man  in  all  that  region  who  was 
credited  with  the  most  active  opposition  to  these  ideas. 
Knowing  his  eccentricity,  however,  it  occurred  to  Har- 
grove that  perhaps  his  visitor  had  come  to  Sturmhold 
on  an  evangelizing  tour,  and  proposed  to  accompUsh 
nothing  less  than  a  conversion  to  the  dogmas  to  which 
he  was  attached.  It  was  with  an  amused  smile,  there- 
fore, that  he  proceeded  to  the  library.  His  amusement 
changed  to  amazement,  therefore,  Avhen,  opening  the 
door,  he  saw  this  radical  reformer  seated  on  a  low  stool 
before  Hilda,  who  was  perched  upon  the  highest  chair 
in  the  room,  with  an  open  book  in  her  lap,  over  which 
her  eager  face  expressed  only  undoubting  wonder. 

"Yes,"  continued  the  excited  child,  "and  the  bears 
got  after  him  !" 

"Bears  ? — the  Great  Bear  and  the  Little  Bear,  I  sup- 
pose ?"  with  the  hint  of  a  smile  at  the  corner  of  his 
broad  mouth. 

"I  reckon  so,"  she  responded,  with  an  uneasy  feel- 
ing that  she  was  being  laughed  at.  "  Of  course  there 
must  have  been  little  and  big  ones,  for  there  were  twenty 
thousand  of  them." 

"  Twenty  thousand !" 

""VYell,  perhaps  it  was  only  ten  thousand  ;  but  it  was 
a  great  many,  anyhoio^''^ — the  last  word  with  great  posi- 
tiveness  of  emphasis. 

Mr.  Clarkson  bent  in  apparent  absorption,  while  his 
tawny  beard  almost  swept  the  page  and  his  genial  face 
was  aglow  with  delight.  It  was  the  story  of  the  adven- 
tures of  Baron  Munchausen,  of  whom  Hilda  was  dis- 
coursing as  she  turned  the  pages  and  explained  the 
engravings  which  illustrated  the  text.      It  had  been  a 


THE  END    OF  THE  LAW.  165 

favorite  with  Martin,  and  so  a  x^art  of  her  repertory  of 
the  wonderful. 

"And  this,"  she  said,  didactically,  'Hhis  is  where  he 
went  to  the  North  Pole." 

"You  don't  tell  me!"  said  her  auditor,  in  a  soft, 
melodious  voice.    "  WeU,  what  did  he  do  then  ?" 

"  The  Baron  ?  Oh,  he  was  all  right.  He  always  was. 
He  climbed  the  Pole  !"  in  a  voice  of  triumph. 

"  Climbed  the  pole  ?    Was  it  a  bare  pole  ?" 

"Yes — well — I  don't  know.  But  they  were  polar 
bears,  you  know." 

A  rich,  full  laugh  rang  out  at  this  unconscious  sally. 
The  stranger  caught  Hilda  in  his  arms,  and  turning  met 
the  surprised  and  amused  glance  of  Captain  Hargrove. 
Without  putting  the  child  down,  the  visitor  advanced 
and  said  : 

"  Captain  Hargrove,  I  suppose  ?" 

"That  is  my  name.  This  is  Mr.  Clarkson,  I  pre- 
Bume?" 

"  Yes.  I  wanted  to  see  you  a  moment  on  business, 
and  while  I  waited  made  the  acquaintance  of  this  little 
girl.     She  is  very  entertaining." 

"For  a  wild  girl,  she  does  well  enough,"  said  Har- 
grove, smiling.  "She  has  always  lived  alone,  except 
when  I  have  been  here  now  and  then  for  a  while,  and, 
though  she  has  had  a  teacher,  seems  to  have  had  her 
own  way  and  taken  her  own  course.  I  am  thinking  of 
sending  her  to  school,  now  that  she  is  getting  so  large." 

"Indeed  ?"  looking  inquiringly  at  the  child. 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  to  be  away  so  much  that  I  cannot  look 
after  her,  and  the  servants  are  spoiling  her,  I  am  afraid." 

"I don't  know,"  said  the  stranger,  seriously.  "Nature 
is  a  great  teacher— a  great  teacher,  sir,  and  the  grandest 
of  nurses.  I  always  pity  the  child  that  has  to  give  the 
freedom  of  a  life  such  as  she  has  known  for  the  tyranny 
of  the  school-room."     The   sentence  was  given    with 


166  HOT  FLOWBHARES. 

oratorical  precision,  a  graceful  outward  wave  of  the  left 
hand  as  he  referred  to  the  surroundings  of  Sturmhold, 
and  a  heavy,  queer  emphasis  upon  tj-rann}-,  the  first  syl- 
lable of  which  was  pronounced  with  a  long  y. 

"Well,"  said  Hargrove,  "I  don't  know  which  is  most 
to  be  pitied,  the  child  that  has  nature  and  misses  the 
school,  or  that  has  the  school  and  misses  nature.  But 
how  can  I  serve  you  ?" 

"Oh,  I  just  w^ant  to  talk  with  you  a  little,"  repUed 
Clarkson.  "There,  run  aAvay,  my  dear."  He  kissed 
the  child,  and  lowered  her  to  the  floor  as  he  spoke,  and 
she  left  the  room  without  further  words.  Hargrove 
motioned  to  a  couple  of  chairs  that  stood  in  the  embra- 
sure of  a  window  at  the  end  of  the  room  overlooking 
the  valley,  and  they  sat  down.  The  visitor  looked  at 
the  prospect  without  for  a  moment,  turned  and  cast 
his  eye  over  the  well-filled  shelves  and  rich  adornments 
of  the  room,  and  then  surveyed  his  companion  from 
head  to  foot  with  careful  scrutiny.  Everything  appa- 
rently pleased  him,  for  he  said  : 

"You  have  a  fine  place  here.  Captain  Hargrove." 

There  was  something  in  his  tone  that  conveyed  a 
deeper  meaning  than  the  words.  Hargrove  smiled  quietly 
as  he  replied  : 

"  You  did  not  come  all  this  distance  to  tell  me  that,  I 
suppose,  Mr.  Clarkson  ?" 

"Well,  no,"  said  the  other,  frankly,  "I  did  not.  I 
came  as  the  representative  of  Mrs,  George  Eighmie." 

"Indeed  !"  said  Hargrove,  lifting  his  eyes. 

"You  are  surprised,  perhaps?"  he  asked,  with  a  smile. 

"At  your  coming,  no;  at  the  title  of  your  embassy, 
yes,"  with  a  light  laugh. 

"  So  ?    You  object  to  my  credentials  ?" 

"  Not  at  all.     If  you  are  satisfied  with  them,  I  am." 

"  You  no  doubt  know  to  whom  I  refer." 


THE  END    OF  THE  LAW.  167 

"lam  sure  I  have  not  the  shghtest  idea,"  repHed 
Hargrove,  with  significant  blandness. 

"  George  Eighmie  was  your  brother,  I  believe  ?" 

"My  half-brotlier." 

"  Yes,  of  course.     You  were  his  executor  ?" 

"  There  is  such  a  record,  I  beheve." 

"  And  the  guardian  of  his  children  ?" 

"  You  say  so,"  smiling. 

"  I  ask  you,  Mr.  Hargrove  ;  I  ask  you  as  a  man,  sir," 
turning  upon  him  a  grave,  earnest  face,  half-flushed 
with  anger  at  the  levity  of  tone  and  manner  of  his  lis- 
tener. 

"You  have  the  right  to  ask,  Mr.  Clarkson,  and  I 
have  an  equally  indubitable  right  to  answer  or  not,  as 
suits  my  pleasure. " 

The  visitor  regarded  him  with  surprise.  He  was  one  of 
those  men  who  are  accustomed  to  overbear  those  who 
converse  with  them  by  the  mere  force  of  their  own  di- 
rectness. Subterfuge  was  rarely  attempted  with  him. 
He  was  sincerity  itself,  and  not  only  expected,  but  al- 
most compelled  sincerity  from  others.  That  one  should 
think  of  refusing  to  answer  such  an  inquiry  was  a  thing 
most  preposterous  to  him.     So  he  said  : 

"  I  am  a  plain  man,  Captain  Hargrove." 

"  They  call  me  blunt,  sir,"  said  the  ex-ofiicer  in  a  tone 
that  fully  justified  such  a  description. 

"And  I  ask  a  plain  question,"  said  Clarkson  severely, 
ignoring  the  other's  interjection. 

"AVhen  you  do  so  you  will  get  a  plain  answer,  sir," 
was  the  emphatic  reply. 

"Humph!  Will  you  tell  me,  then,  whether  you  were 
the  guardian  of  your  half-brother's  children  V" 

"I  will  not."  ^ 

"  You  will  not ;  why  ?" 

" Because  I  do  not  choose  to  do  so." 


1G8  HOT  PLOWSHAIIES. 

Clarkson  rose  and  walked  quickly  once  or  twice  across 
the  room. 

"Mr.  Hargrove,"  he  said,  finally,  as  he  paused  near 
his  former  seat,  "I  came  here  in  a  spirit  of  friendship 
and  conciliation  to  induce  you  to  do  justice  to  an  in- 
jured and  outraged  woman." 

"Am  I  to  infer  that  you  show  your  conciliatory  spirit 
by  accusing  me  of  the  injury  and  outrage  ?"  asked  Har- 
grove, with  a  smile. 

"  She  is  your  brother's  Avidow,"  said  the  other,  hotly. 

"  So  you  have  said  before." 

"  And  you  have  not  denied — you  dare  not  deny  it." 

"  I  do  not  feel  called  upon  to  deny  it." 

"  You  have  taken  her  estate  and  left  her  in  penury. 
You  have  separated  her  from  her  children  and — " 

"  That  will  do,  Mr.  Clarkson.  I  do  not  question  your 
motives,  but  you  must  remember  that  I  am  in  my  own 
house — a  fact  which  I  may  forget  if  you  do  not  use 
milder  language." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir, "  said  Clarkson.  "  The  wrong 
of  which  this  woman's  life  is  only  one  sad  chapter  al- 
ways stirs  me  to  the  very  marrow.  The  law  which  per- 
mits such  outrages  is  a  vile  and  infamous  thing." 

Hargrove  made  no  answer.  Clarkson  turned  away, 
and,  after  a  moment,  returned  and  said  : 

"If  you  do  not  mean  to  comply  with  our  demands, 
Mr.  Hargrove,  why  not  say  so  plainly  ?" 

"You  have  not  as  yet  made  any  demand.  When 
you  do  so  I  will  certainly  reply  distinctly." 

"Very  well,  I  will  proceed  now  in  form,"  said  Clark- 
son, resuming  his  seat.  "Here  is  a  power  of  attorney 
from  the  relict  of  George  Eighmie,  late  of  Mallowbanks, 
planter,  whose  half-brother  and  executor  you  admit 
yourself  to  be." 

He  handed  Captain  Hargrove  a  legal  document  as  he 
spoke. 


THE   END    OF  THK  LAW.  1U5» 

''Well?" 

''By  examination  you  will  see  that  1  am  authorized 
hy  her  to  demand  from  you  a  share  of  the  estate  of  her 
late  husband  and  the  custody  of  her  children.  Now, 
what  have  you  to  say  ?" 

"  Only,  Mr.  Clarkson,  that  the  law  has  decided  that 
George  Eighmie  left  no  widow  and  no  legitimate  chil- 
dren. Through  failure  of  these,  his  estate  fell  to  me  as 
his  heir.  What  I  shall  do  with  it  as  such  is  a  matter 
for  my  own  conscience  alone.  If,  as  executor  of  his  will, 
I  am  in  the  least  in  fault,  the  law  offers  a  remedy." 

"  Yes,  the  remedy  which  the  poor  have  against  the  rich 
— the  weak  against  the  strong, ' '  said  Clarkson  with  a  sneer. 

"Pardon  me,  Mr.  Clarkson,"  said  Hargrove,  rising 
to  his  feet,  "that  is  not  so.  If  the  woman  you  call 
George  Eighmie 's  widow  had  not  you  for  her  friend — 
the  richest  man  of  all  this  region  of  wealth  and  thrift — 
she  still  has  me,  and  knows  very  well  that  I  would  not 
see  any  wrong  done  her  by  any  one,  much  less  be  guilty 
of  it  myself." 

"Yet  you  hold  and  enjoy  the  estate  which  should 
have  been  hers,  while  she  is  obliged  to  seek  refuge 
among  strangers." 

"  Pardon  me  again,  sir,"  said  Hargrove,  "the  woman 
of  whom  you  speak  is  in  no  need.  Whatever  I  have  she 
is  welcome  to  enjoy.  Even  now  my  house  is  at  her  dis- 
posal, my  servants  subject  to  her  control." 

"  Yet  she  fled  from  this  house  in  a  frenzy  of  terror." 

"  A  silly,  baseless  fear,  yet  one  which  her  sad  expe- 
rience made  it  not  unreasonable  that  she  should  enter- 
tain. She  is  a  weak,  foolish  woman  at  best,  and  has 
been  made  doubly  suspicious  by  the  snares  into  which 
she  has  fallen  through  her  own  folly  and  the  love  of  a 
weak  man." 

"Perhaps  your  own  conduct  gave  her  groimd  for  sus- 
picion." 


170  HOT  PLOWSHAKE.S. 

"I  have  reproached  niys^elf  Avith  the  thought  that  it 
may  have  doue  so,  Mr.  Clarkson,"''  said  Hargrove 
frankly.  "I  am  free  to  admit  that  I  do  not  hke  her,  I 
never  did.  She  is  a  vain,  selfish,  querulous  thing,  who 
never  had  anything  but  a  pretty  face  to  make  her  at- 
tractive. Then,  too,  I  have  never  been  able  to  forget 
the  woe  she  wrought  in  my  poor  brother's  life." 

••  Was  it  not  his  fault  rather  than  hers  ?"  sharply. 

"  Oh,  no  doubt ;  but  you  see,  Mr.  Clarkson,  I  loved 
him,  and  it  is  always  the  one  we  love  who  is  wronged  by 
misfortune.'" 

"But  if  30U  do  not  want  her  in  your  house,  why  do 
you  not  let  her  have  the  estate — or  a  widow's  portion 
of  it,  at  least — give  up  the  children  to  her  charge,  and 
leave  her  to  care  for  them  {ind  herself  as  she  chooses  V 
Certainly  you  have  enough  without  it.  Or,  if  the  law 
gives  it  to  you,  you  might  at  least  yield  a  moiety  to  her." 

''Mr.  Clarkson,  your  remark  shows  how  easily  we  are 
misled  by  our  prejudices  and  prepossessions.  If  this 
woman  had  not  l)een,  at  one  time,  a  victim  of  the  evils 
of  a  system  which  you  regard  with  peculiar  horror  and 
aversion,  you  would  not  look  upon  her  case  as  one  of 
hardship.  A  good  home  here  or  a  good  support  else- 
where— anything  in  reason,  and  in  fact  a  good  deal  more 
than  reason,  I  am  ready  to  provide." 

"  But,  still,  what  should  have  been  her  own  is  with- 
held from  her." 

"•  You  think  so  ?  Let  me  tell  you  the  facts.  When  I 
shall  have  disposed  of  that  estate  according  to  the  wish 
of  George  Eighmie,  it  w^ll  have  consumed  itself  and 
half  as  much  more,  and  will  leave  me  still  to  provide 
out  of  my  own  estate  for  this  woman  and  her  children.'' 

"  You  might  at  least  allow  her  the  control  of  her  own 
children." 

"Your  opinion  differs  from  that  of  George  Eighmie. 
That  is  all  there  is  of  that  matter,"  answered  Hargrove. 


THE  END    OF  THE  LAW.  171 

"  He  left  two  c-hildreu  to  my  caiv.  His  own  relation  to 
them  was  complex  and  peculiar.  AVhether  I  received  them 
as  executor  or  as  guardian  is  yet  an  undetermined  ques- 
tion, legally.  As  his  brother,  however,  1  have  thus  far 
strictly  followed  his  injunctions  in  regard  to  them,  and  in- 
tend to  do  so  hereafter,  no  matter  what  the  consequences. " 

''  Where  are  they  now  ?" 

"■Mr.  Clarkson,  the  woman  whom  you  represent 
knows  very  well  that  one  of  them,  the  boy,  was  stolen 
from  my  possession,  and  I  have  since  been  unable  to 
tind  any  trace  of  him.  As  for  the  girl — well,  she  is  pro- 
perly cared  for.'- 

"  She  is  about  the  age  of  the  child  1  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  here  this  morning,  I  believe  ?" 

''Very  nearly,"  said  Hargrove,  with  a  smile. 

"•  And  resembles  her  in  appearance,  too  ?" 

''  Perhaps,"  the  smile  deepening  as  he  spoke. 

"Mr.  Hargrove,  why  is  not  this  mother  allowed  to 
see  her  child  ?"  Clarkson  asked  the  question  with  deep 
feeling,  and  then  proceeded  :  ''  Put  yourself  in  her  place, 
my  dear  sir.  As  you  say,  her  life  has  been  a  sad  one. 
She  seems  to  have  known  poverty  and  wealth,  love 
and  hate ;  and  noAv  to  be  debarred  from  her  children.'s 
caresses  is  surely  a  hard  lot." 

"No  one  realizes  that  more  than  1,"  rejoined  Har- 
grove with  emotion.  "I  greatly  misdoubt  the  wisdom 
of  my  brother's  plan  ;  but  I  pledged  him  my  honor  to 
carry  it  into  effect,  and  I  mean  to  do  it  to  the  letter,  if 
it  takes  my  fortune  and  my  life." 

"Surely  his  plan  did  not  contemplate  any  such  cruelty 
toward  the  poor  woman  who  had  been  his  wife — at  least 
in  the  sight  of  Heaven." 

"I  think,  sir,  that  his  plan  was  devised  simply  with 
a  view  to  securing  the  happiness  of  the  children.  The 
law  had  dealt  very  harshly  with  my  poor  brother's 
foibles,  and  he  wished  to  save  them  from  its  scath," 


1 72  HOT  PL 0  W8HARES. 

"The  law— the  law  1"  exclaimed  the  other  hotly,  "do 
you  call  that  the  laii\  which  separates  husband  and 
wife  ?  It  is  sacrilege,  sir !  Such  an  enactment  is  no 
law.  It  is  an  instrument  of  iniquity — an  outgrowth  of 
that  'league  with  hell,'  the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States !" 

His  eyes  flashed  fire  under  his  heavy  brows,  aud  his 
strong  face  w^orked  with  excitement  as  he  spoke. 

"That  may  all  be,  Mr.  Clarkson.  I  do  not  pretend 
to  know  where  the  law  cuts  the  line  of  right  too  sharply 
to  bind  the  conscience.  This  I  do  know,  that  George 
Eighmie  enjoined  it  upon  me  on  his  death-bed  to  do  for 
these  children  as  he  would  have  done  had  we  exchanged 
places.  His  purpose  was  one  that  my  conscience  ap- 
proves though  my  reason  may  not.  I  am  doing  noAV 
what  you  would  do,  what  any  honorable  man  would  do. 
"What  his  purpose  was,  I  have  never  revealed  to  any 
one.  Should  I  live  to  see  it  accomplished,  no  one 
will  ever  know  it  save  from  such  rough  guesses  as  you 
may  make.  If  I  die  before  that  work  is  completed,  I 
will  leave  it  in  good  and-  honest  hands.  Mr.  Clark- 
son,"  he  added,  suddenly  laying  his  hand  upon  the 
latter's  shoulder,  "  If  I  should  die  before  the  youngest 
of  these  children  arrives  at  maturity  this  trust  will 
devolve  on  you." 

"On  me?'' 

"Yes,  on  you.  I  have  long  been  thinking  of  one 
whom  I  could  make  my  successor,  and  our  conversation 
to-day  has  brought  me  to  this  decision." 

"  I  will  not  touch  it,  sir,  I  will  not  touch  it  I" 

"I  think  you  wall,  sir.  No  honest  man  will  ever  re- 
fuse another  honest  man  a  just  and  reasonable  request. 
At  least,  if  you  will  not  act  yourself,  you  will  select 
some  one  to  act  in  my  place."" 

"I  refuse,  sir,  I  refuse,  utterly  and  absolutely,  now 
aud  forever,"  said  Clarkson,  moving  toward  the  door. 


THK  END   OF  THE  LAW.  IT:'. 

"You  will  not,  sir,  when  he  who  asks  is  dead." 

"I  will  not  hear  of  it !  If  you  think  you  are  doing 
right,  go  on.  I  shall  not  trouble  you.  But  what  shall  I 
say  to — to  this  woman  ?" 

"Tell  her  that  George  Eighniie  asked  me  to  provide 
for  her  every  reasonable  comfort,  and  that  not  one  syl- 
lable of  what  I  promised  him  shall  ever  fail  while  Mer- 
wyn  Hargrove  lives." 

"And  if  she  wishes  to  return?  You  will  make  her 
welcome,  I  suppose  ?" 

"No;  I  have  no  welcome  for  her.  I  wish  she  might 
elect  not  to  return ;  but,  if  she  insists  on  coming,  my 
house  is  open,  and  she  shall  have  no  reason  to  com- 
plain of  any  lack  of  respect  while  here." 

"And  the  little  girl,  she  will  be  allowed  to  assume 
her  old  relation  to  her,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  To  Hilda  ?  Oh,  yes  ;  though  she  is  getting  past  the 
need  of  a  nurse,  which  is  about  the  limit  of  her  capacity. " 

"  But  you  will  not  separate  them  ?" 

"Not  unless  she  abuses  my  confidence.  In  that  case, 
of  course,  I  shall  lose  no  time  in  ridding  myself  of  her 
presence." 

"Of  course.  Well,  I  will  tell  her.  I  think  that  is  the 
best  she  can  do." 

"I  should  prefer,  Mr.  Clarkson,  that  you  should  say 
what  is  a  reasonable  allowance  for  her  and  let  me  pay  it 
into  your  hands." 

"  No,  sir ;  no,  sir ;  I  drop  the  matter  from  this  mo- 
ment. It  is  evidently  one  of  the  accursed  secrets  of 
slavery,  of  which  I  have  already  heard  too  many.  By 
the  way.  Captain  Hargrove,  I  am  surprised  that,  with 
the  sad  experiences  which  you  have  known,  you  should 
still  be  an  advocate  of  the  system  which  produces  them." 

"I  do  not  know  that  I  am  an  advocate  of  it ;  but  I 
was  born  where  it  prevailed,  and,  while  I  appreciate  its 
evils,  I  do  not  see  how  they  can  be  remedied." 


174  -       HOT  PLOWHHARKS. 

"The  remedy  is  freedom!"  said  Clarksou.  enthusias- 
tically; "make  the  negro  a  man  and  he  will  soon  take 
care  of  himself." 

"  Pshaw  !  Mr.  Clai-kson.  I  have  seen  the  negro  at 
home  and  abroad,  free  and  slave,  and  I  know  the  people 
of  the  South.  I  have  myself  set  free  more  slaves  than 
all  the  Abolitionists  in  the  State  of  New  York." 

"You?" 

"Yes,  I,"  he  repeated,  in  a  contemptuous  tone,  "and 
I  have  now  no  particle  of  interest  in  a  slave,  except 
through  the  will  of  George  Eighmie." 

"Indeed  ?" 

"Yes,  and  I  don't  mind  saying  that  I  don't  want  any 
more  slave  property.  I  believe  I  would  rather  be  poor 
than  have  it.  Yet,  I  am  not  sure  that  slavery  itself  is 
a  sin,  and  I  am  not  surprised  at  a  man  who  inherited 
slaves  along  with  his  family  Bible  hanging  on  to  them 
just  as  strongly  as  he  sticks  to  that." 

"  Yet  that  does  not  make  it  right." 

"Granted.  Xeither  does  the  fact  that  liberty  is  ab- 
stractly right  make  universal  freedom  desirable.*" 

"I  do  not  see  why." 

"You  do  not  ?  Why  if,  by  a  miracle,  the  slaves  were 
freed  to-day,  they  would  be  re-enslaved  or  annihilated  in 
a  week.  It  is  impossible  and  absurd  to  think  of  Free- 
dom cannot  be  where  there  are  two  races,  almost  equal 
in  numbers,  one  of  which  has  been  the  master  and  the 
other  servile.  It  can  never  be — never,  sir,  unless  the 
spirit  of  the  one  is  broken  and  the  manhood  of  the  other 
developed.  The  path  from  slavery  to  freedom  must 
always  be  a  long  and  hard  one.  I  do  not  see  how  the 
American  slave  can  ever  set  his  foot  in  it.  Slavery  has 
been  a  hard  master,  but  it  has  taught  him  much.  He 
is  infinitely  above  his  congener  on  the  African  coast, 
but  he  is  not  yet  able  to  go  alone.  Isolated  from  the 
white  race,  he  lapses  into  barbarism  without  fail.     The 


THE  END    OF  THE  LA 


175 


pioblem   which  seems  so  simple  to  jou,  Mr.  Clarkson,  is 
a  terrible  and  bloody  one  to  me.     You  may,  perhaps 

wou  "  ""  f-  f  "'^-  ^'  ^^^^'^  ^^^-  -  i^  'j-  time 
would  come  which  my  Eietta  was  always  prophesying 
when  the  land  will  be  riven  by  the  conflict,  anS  «laven' 
be  drowned  in  blood.  It  may  come,  and  you  may  hve 
to  see  It,  though  I  do  not  think  you  will.  But,  if  you  do 
remember  what  I  tell  you  to-day.  A  slave  ma  b.: 
fieedin  an  hour;  a  free  man  cannot  ]>e  made  in  many 

,J^^  *r  "''"  '*^^'^  ^^^"^g  earnestly  into  each  other\s 

ItTrih  %  """7-  '^^''"'^^  '''''"'-  ^'''  ''''  ^^-^-k  and 
swarthy  with  a  hint  of  Southern  sunshine  in  his  eye 
his  long  beard  and  a  certain  litheness  of  form  distinguish- 
ing h,ni  from  the  other,  who,  not  less  stalwart  in  lame 
had  a  tawny  tinge  in  his  beard  and  a  clear  light  in  his 
blue  eye  that  told  of  generations  that  had  looked  up  at 
frozen  winter  skies.  Of  the  two,  the  latter  was  b^fj 
the  more  carefully  dressed.  He  was  graceful  wiUiout 
he  languid  ease  of  the  other,  and  more  readily  awakened 
o  engrossing  interest,  though  perhaps  less  intensely  ex- 
cited when  his  interest  was  once  aroused 

''You  may  be  right,"  said  Clarkson,  earnestly,  and 
extending  his  hand  as   he  spoke.      "I  can  anDrerin 
your  feeling  though  I  do  not'share  your  a^pX::;::: 
^^sIZ^oJiZT'  ^^^   ^-P-^-^  factor-indeed, 

p«iid!'""'^^'^'^^^---^^^^-^^'- 

soiemnftv"    "f    ''""  ^''''''   "^  ""  '''''  ^^  "^  ^^^most 
so lemmty.      'I  can  only  see  the  evil  that  is,  and  hear  a 

voice  calling  me  to  tear  it  down,  and  trust  kim  to  p  o- 
Mde  a  remedy  for  that  which  shall  come  after  " 

Then'^ihr'''^  f."^'''  '""^*  '''  ^  "^^^^^-t  i^  silence. 

JtWh  7  ^      "^  '^'^'    '^  P^^d^^  the   thoughts   the 
other  had  expressed. 


CHAPTER  XV. 
"for  the  glory  of  god." 

"  '  For  the  glory  of  God— for  the  glory  of  God  '—I  de- 
clare, Captain,  I  don't  know.  I  thought  of  it  when  you 
first  brought  me  that  will,  but,  as  there  wasn't  any  op- 
position^— that  is,  no  caveat  filed,  though  there  was  con- 
siderable talk  of  one — I  didn't  give  it  much  attention. 
Since  that,  I  've  kind  of  thought  it  a  settled  matter — not 
exactly  res  adjiidicata,  you  know,  but  a  question  not  likely 
to  come  up  again,  till  now  this  new  claim  of  the  heirs 
that  Gilman  is  pushing,  and  I  've  had  my  mind  turned 
to  it  again,  and  I  declare,  Captain,  I  'm  more  'n  half 
afraid  on't." 

The  speaker  sat  in  the  librar}'^  at  Sturmhold  beside  a 
table  on  which  were  numerous  papers,  while  on  the 
other  side  sat  Merwyn  Hargrove,  his  face  flushed  and 
his  brows  knitted  close  above  angry,  impatient  eyes.  It 
was  at  night,  and  a  shaded  lamp  left  the  two  men  half 
in  shadow,  while  the  papers,  inkstand  and  the  stubby 
hand  of  the  lawyer,  who  held  a  quill  pen  with  the  back 
of  it  downward  while  he  spoke,  were  in  the  circle  of 
white  light  about  its  base.  Just  beside  it,  too,  stood  a 
silver  waiter,  on  which  was  a  decanter,  a  small  pitcher, 
a  sugar-bowl  and  spoons.  A  glass,  half  full  of  liquor, 
stood  at  the  speaker's  right  hand,  while  an  empty  one 
stood  at  Hargrove's  elbow.  The  clock  upon  the  mantel 
struck  a  soft,  mellow  chime  as  the  speaker  paused.  Each 
of  the  listeners  counted  stroke  by  stroke,  mentally  won- 
dering what  would  be  the  result.  It  was  eleven  o'clock, 
and  they  had  been  there  since  seven.  Neither  thought 
176 


''FOR  THE  GLORY  OF  OODy  l7t 

so  long  a  time  had  passed.  It  was  the  conclusion  of  an 
important  consultation.  The  man  who  had  spoken  was 
Mr.  Matthew  Bartlemy,  the  legal  adviser  of  Merwyn 
Hargrove  in  Carolina.  Mr.  Bartlemy  had  heen  the  attor- 
ney of  Colonel  Eighmie,  and  his  devoted  friend  as  well, 
and  had  naturally  been  intrusted  with  Captain  Har- 
grove's affairs  for  that  reason,  if  for  no  other. 

But  there  were  not  lacking  other  reasons  why  one 
charged    with    delicate    and    important    duties    should 
seek  the  aid  of  Matthew  Bartlemy.     He  M^as  one  of 
the  men  who  had  come   up  from  the  lower  ranks  of 
Southern  Hfe  to  the  highest  pinnacle  in  his  profession. 
The  fact  that  one  of  this  class  rises  at  all  is  evidence 
of  his  unusual  power.     Even  at  the  North,  the  capacity 
to  come  up  through  superincumbent  social  grades  with- 
out the  aid  of  money  or  friends  is  not  regarded  lightly. 
The  man  who  achieves   success    from   nothingness   is 
apt  to  look  back  upon  his  past  with  a  peculiar  compla- 
cency, and  boast,  directly  or  indirectly,  of  being  a  self- 
made  man.      He  may  be  Avrong  to   feel  so.      It  is  a 
matter  of  grave  doubt   whether   a  good    brain  is  not 
often  hampered  with  the  accidents  of  wealth  and  po- 
sition rather  than  given  any  advantage  thereby.    It  is  a 
question    whether    the    paucity  of   opportunity  "  which 
poverty  brings  does  not  favor  that  intensity,  concentra- 
tion and  self-reliance  on  which,  in  the  main,  success  de- 
pends.     Many  a  plant  would  have  grown  rugged  and 
strong  on  the  bleak  mountain  side  that,  prisoned  in  a 
hot-house,  is  dwarfed  and  weakened  until  it  falls  a  victim 
to  hordes  of  parasites  who  could  not  have  pierced  its 
bark  in  its  wild  estate.      So  many  a  man,  who  would 
have  grown  strong  and  grand  in  wholesome  poverty  and 
risen  out  of  obscurity  into  eminence  under  the  ceaseless 
sting  of  dire  necessity,  fades  into  insignificance  under 
the  influence  of  wealth,  opportunity  and  the  lack  of  an 
unrelenting  need. 


178  HOT  PLOWSirAlU-:s. 

But  if.  such  a  career  at  the  North  be  regarded  as 
creditable,  what  shall  be  said  of  it  under  the  social  con- 
ditions of  the  South  of  that  day  ?  That  such  instances 
were  not  infrequent  speaks  volumes  for  the  strength  and 
vigor  of  that  unconsidered  class  who  constitute  the  ma- 
jority of  the  Southern  whites — the  "common  liver," 
"  crapper  "  or  "  poor  white  "  class. 

From  this  class,  unesteemed  and,  in  many  respects, 
undesirable,  has  been  constantly  repaired  that  vital 
waste  which  slavery  produced  in  the  ruling  or  aristo- 
cratic class.  By  a  principle  of  selection  not  less  certain 
than  the  survival  of  the  fittest  among  the  lower  forms 
of  life,  there  rose  out  of  this  neglected,  ignorant  and 
ofttimes  degraded  class,  year  by  year,  the  strongest, 
bravest  and  toughest — the  best  and  the  worst — into  the 
ranks  of  the  ruling  class,  to  take  the  places  of  those 
whom  luxury,  leisure  and  vice  had  weakened  and  de- 
stroyed. From  this  source  came  the  new  blood  that 
kept  the  old  families  up  to  the  level  of  ability  their 
names  implied.  Solitude,  nature  and  poverty  were  the 
inheritance  of  such.  The  pine  trees  crooned  their  cradle 
songs.  Rocks  and  rivers  were  their  playground  and 
academia.  They  were  so  near  to  nature  that  they  had 
almost  the  toughness  of  the  savage.  Their  needs  were 
as  simple  as  the  slave's.  The  woods  and  waters  fur- 
nished half  their  subsistence  without  labor.  They 
looked  forward  to  be  to-morrow  as  they  were  yesterday. 
For  their  children  they  asked  no  more  than  they  had 
themselves.  The  public  school  was  so  rare  as  to  be  a 
curiosity  and  so  poor  as  hardly  to  merit  the  name. 
If  knowledge  came  to  such  it  was  by  accident,  or 
as  a  reward  for  a  perseverance  that  of  itself  guar- 
anteed success.  This  life  strengthened,  however,  and 
toughened  its  best  specimens,  while  the  inferior  ones 
shriveled  and  rotted.  Strong-willed,  thick-skinned, 
tough-fibred  men  came  out  of  this  class  and  conquered 


''FOB   THE   GLORY  OF  GOD."  170 

places  in  the  aristocracy.  They  mated  with  its  daugh- 
ters. Tliey  won  its  estates  by  industry  sometimes,  not 
unfrequently  by  fraud.  Tliey  won  their  way  by  over- 
matching in  brain  and  power  tliose  that  boasted  of 
hereditary  gifts,  and  took  tlieir  places  in  the  caste  they 
had  conquered.  It  was  bj^  this  means  that  new  fami- 
lies grew  and  old  ones  were  kept  alive  at  the  South.  It 
is  for  this  reason  that  the  individuals  who  stand  at  the 
head  of  Southern  affairs,  who  dominate  its  political  life, 
are  very  rarely  the  blue-bloods  which  the  sycophants  of 
the  North  conceive  them  to  be.  One  needs  only  to  run 
through  the  list  of  Southern  statesmen,  present  or  past, 
to  discover  the  fact  that  their  marvelous  strength,  indi- 
viduality and  energy,  is  due,  not  to  their  old  families  and 
aristocratic  descent,  but  to  the  nameless  herd  whose  very 
memory  is  spurned  by  the  leader  whom  the  same  hard- 
ships have  toughened  for  conflict.  Therefore  it  is  that 
the  Northern  man  is  apt  to  boast  of  having  overcome 
poverty,  while  the  Southern  man  extols  the  wealth  and 
social  rank  of  his  kindred,  it  hardly  matters  how  re- 
mote. The  Northern  man  who  rises  exults  in  his  victory. 
The  Southern  man  is  often  humiliated  by  the  memory 
of  really  humble  origin.  Indeed,  it  is  rare  to  find  at  the 
South  a  strong  man  who  is,  on  both  sides  of  his  family, 
two  I'emoves  from  that  peculiar  substratum  which  is  the 
really  distinctive  feature  of  Southern  life,  and  on  the 
elevation  of  which  the  future  of  the  South  must  depend. 
What  called  itself  aristocracy  was  a  pleasant  thing.  It 
had  its  uses  in  the  past,  no  doubt.  Indeed,  it  has  a  use 
in  the  present — it  is  the  dead  trmik,  smitten  by  the  fiery 
bolt,  but  yet  erect,  about  -vYhich  the  living  vine  of  the 
scorned  and  unconsidered  lower  class  will  cling  and 
climb. 

The  ancient  aristocracy  will  serve  as  the  mould  in 
which  the  manhood  of  the  South  will  in  a  measure  be 
shaped,  but  it  is  in  the  undertow  that  its  strength,  its 


LSO  HOT  PL0W8I1AMES. 

enterprise  and  its  destiny  must  be  sought.  From  this 
class,  even  in  the  past,  have  come  its  best  and  strongest. 
Jackson,  whose  birth  is  still  a  mj^sterj^  against  whom 
stands  yet  the  record  of  the  hostel  that  he  left  without 
paying  his  bill,  came  out  of  this  class.  A  President  of 
questionable  parentage,  who  learned  the  rudiments  after 
his  marriage  ;  a  Senator  whose  first  shoes  were  worn 
Avhen,  according  to  tradition,  he  fiddled  at  his  mother's 
first  marriage  ;  Governors  and  Judges  and  generals  by 
the  score,  whose  names  are  accounted  of  the  proudest 
among  the  living  and  the  dead,  derived  from  this  class, 
which  they  have  too  often  made  haste  to  disown  and 
contemn,  the  strength  that  gave  success.  So,  while 
the  strongest  of  those  below  conquered  their  places  in 
the  rank  above  the}-^  were  in  turn  overcome  by  the 
caste  to  which  they  aspired,  which,  as  a  condition  of 
recognition  and  acceptance,  demanded  that  the  fact  be 
forgotten.  So  the  aristocracy  preserved  itself  and  3'et 
renewed  its  strength  by  constant  accessions  from  the 
ranks  below.  The  gradations  in  societ}-  were  preserved 
with  a  distinctness  impossible  at  the  North.  The  poor 
white  remained  poor.  The  aristocrat  still  boasted  of 
his  proud  descent.  They  kept  the  pride  of  the  great 
families  alive,  and  the  sou  whose  sire  was  of  humble 
oi-igin  flaunted  his  mother's  family  crest.  Even  the 
bai*-sinister  was  not  always  allowed  to  interfere  with 
the  pride  of  descent,  and  instances  are  to  be  found 
of  great  men  who  have  sunk  the  pride  of  self-achieve- 
ment to  boast  the  unsanctioned  kinship  of  a  great  name. 
Ah  !  do  not  sneer,  good  Puritan.  The  results  of  this 
social  system  are  not  lightly  to  be  condemned.  While 
the  system  which  you  deem  incompai-able  has  tended 
more  and  more  to  crush  out  individuality,  to  furnish  a 
Procrustean  bed  for  all,  this  has  developed  the  reverse. 
Before  you  boast  of  material  results  you  must  remember 
that  you  have  taken  the  choicest  blood  of  the  world  to 


FOR   THE   GLORY  OF  GOD:'  181 

repair  the  waste  of  life  your  follies  have  eutailed.  Half 
a  million  lives  a  year  have  brought  fresh  blood  to  inject 
into  your  veins.  You  have  been  the  Canaan  of  the 
world's  hope — the  highway  of  its  aspiration.  Europe's 
life,  from  the  frozen  ocean  to  the  steaming  sea,  has 
mingled  with  your  life.  Good  and  bad  have  come  alike. 
The  evil  have  come  to  ravish  as  well  as  the  good  law- 
fully to  enjoy.  But  all  have  brought  strength  and  kindly 
nature  has  chastened  the  evil  with  her  amenities,  and 
developed  the  good  with  healthful  antagonism  and  abun- 
dant reward.  Babel  has  been  builded  at  every  four 
corners.  Every  churchyard  is  polyglotic.  Who  are 
you,  and  whence  ?  How  many  peoples  mingle  in  your 
veins  ?  How  many  ancestral  languages  make  up  your 
speech  ?  You  have  wrought  wonders  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  Is  all  that  you  have  done  good  ?  Can  you  forecast 
a  cloudless  future  V  Y''ou  claim  to  be  the  perfection  of  the 
American  idea — to  be  yourself  American.     Is  it  true? 

"With  the  South  how  different  have  been  the  conditions ! 
Her  people  are  all  the  children  of  those  who  dwelt 
within  her  lines  when  the  Revolution  ended.  The 
world  has  run  past  her  borders.  Her  children  have 
poured  out  of  her  limits,  but  none  have  returned.  She 
has  peopled  her  own  West  and  flowed  over  into  your 
Northwest.  Y''ou  have  builded  factories  and  cities  and 
marts.  She  has  grown  men.  She  has  given  of  her  life 
by  millions  to  make  your  life-blood  richer.  Y^'ou  have 
grown  too  rich  to  raise  children  ;  her  homes  are  swarm- 
ing with  them.  One  system  may  be  better,  but  neither 
is  bad.  Perhaps  the  best  may  lie  somewhere  between. 
At  least,  O,  boastful  Northman,  remember  this:  what 
thou  hast  achieved  has  been  with  the  world's  help. 
What  the  South  has  done  she  has  done  alone — because 
she  willed  to  be  alone,  no  doubt,  but  yet  the  fact  re- 
mains. The  world  has  not  come  into  her  life.  The 
English  stocks  that  settled  on  her  eastern  coast  have 


182  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

filled  her  borders  and  overflowed  Ihem,  too.  There  is 
little  admixture.  The  immigraut  has  beeu  excluded  •, 
the  African  is  afar  oft'  across  the  abyss  of  darkness. 
The  one  life  has  grown  out  of  itself;  the  other  has 
sucked  the  veins  of  the  world. 

Mr.  Matthew  Bartlemy  was  of  the  stock  of  common 
livers.  His  father  had  been  an  overseer  ;  his  grandfather 
a  "crap per  "—good,  honest  people,  as  are  the  most  of 
their  class.  They  ate  and  drank  with  content.  For 
them  there  was  no  morrow  that  gave  promise  of  more 
tlian  to-day,  and  httle  fear  of  any  that  should  be  worse. 
The  place  of  the  rich  and  favored  was  too  high  for  them 
to  aspire  to,  and  below  them  was  only  the  slave,  who 
was  separated  from  them  a  world-wide  distance  by  his 
color.  They  were  poor.  They  did  not  feel  it  deeply. 
Their  people  had  always  been  poor.  They  expected 
nothing  else  for  their  children.  They  were  poor  but 
honest  and — white.  Of  these  two  things  they  were 
justly  proud,  and  of  these  alone.  There  was  nothing 
else  in  their  past,  present  or  future,  so  far  as  they  could 
foresee  it,  to  justify  pride. 

They  were  coarse,  rough  people ;  hardened  by  gene- 
rations of  want.  They  did  not  murmur.  They  were  as 
well  off  as  their  neighbors.  The  pride  and  luxury  of  the 
rich  did  not  gall  them.  They  were  only  poor  folks ;  ex- 
pected to  be  treated  as  such  ;  had  no  idea  of  being  any- 
thing else,  and  had  no  quarrel  Avith  fate  over  what  they 
deemed  inevitable  and  irremediable. 

Some  of  these  attributes  the  good  people  had  trans- 
mitted to  their  descendant.  He  was  neither  sensitive 
nor  retiring  ;  and  he  was  ambitious.  He  could  not  see 
why  others  should  have  what  he  did  not  possess.  He 
was  not  especially  desirous  of  fame,  but  wealth,  success, 
power,  he  coveted  with  an  unquenchable  desire.  What- 
ever lay  between  him  and  these  he  early  determined  to 
overcome.    He  was  not  scrupulous.    What  others  hosi- 


''FOR    THE   (J LORY  OF  dOD."  183 

taled  to  do  he  performed  with  alacrity  if  it  promoted 
the  end  he  had  iu  view.  By  stubborn  persistence  he 
gained  an  education.  An  old  field  school,  the  kindness 
of  a  clergyman  to  whom  even  the  pittance  he  could  pay 
was  an  object,  and  the  place  of  a  beneficiary  at  college, 
together  with  his  indomitable  energy  and  tireless  appli- 
cation, put  him  on  a  level,  in  acquirement,  with  the 
most  favored.  He  had  brain.  Everybody  had  learned 
that  before  he  graduated.  He  was  not  brilliant,  but  he 
Avas  solid.  He  did  not  know  everything,  but  what  he 
once  learned  he  knew  forever.  What  he  needed  to  know 
he  was  sure  to  find  out.  For  what  he  did  not  need  he 
had  no  care.  He  chose  the  law  ;  gave  himself  to  his 
client ;  was  faithful,  tireless,  shrewd  and  hard.  He  had 
few  intimates ;  avoided  politics  ;  served  his  profession 
and  made  it  serve  him.  Before  he  had  reached  middle 
life  he  had  the  leading  practice  in  his  circuit,  and  was 
known  and  feared  as  an  opponent  even  in  the  capital  of 
the  state.  Xow,  in  the  fullness  of  his  years,  he  stood 
at  the  head  of  his  profession,  the  aspirations  of  his  youth 
more  than  fulfilled — the  lord  of  many  a  plantation,  the 
owner  of  hundreds  of  slaves.  He  had  steadily  put  aside 
the  honors  of  his  profession,  and  gathered  only  with 
untiring  zeal  its  material  advantages. 

The  habits  of  his  life  were  so  strong  upon  him  that 
he  still  labored  as  assiduously  as  when  spurred  by  ne- 
cessity. Colonel  Eighmie  had  been  his  patron  in  his 
early  days,  and  he  never  forgot  a  service  rendered  to 
himself.  Merwyn  Hargrove,  thus  commended  to  his  at- 
tention, had  further  commended  himself  by  being  a  very 
profitable  client.  Matthew  Bartlemy  had  served  him 
faithfully,  and  never  dreamed  of  relaxing  his  watch 
over  the  interests  that  had  been  committed  to  his  care. 
He  would  not  have  scrupled  to  demand  half  the  estate 
for  an  emergent  service  ;  but,  having  undertaken  that 
service,  he  would  not  for  a  thousand  times  that  amount 


184  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

have  failed  iu  any  duty  attaching  to  the  relation  he  had 
assumed.  He  gave  to  the  atfairs  of  every  client  not  only 
reasonable  care  Ijut  the  utmost  diligence.  As  a  man,  he 
was  not  altogether  admirable.  As  an  agent,  he  was  the 
perfection  of  vigilance,  sagacity  and  fidelity.  As  Mat- 
thew Bartlemy  he  was  feared,  hated,  and  sometimes 
loathed.  As  M.  Bartlemy,  Esq.,  Attorney-at-Law,  he 
was  trusted  by  his  clients,  feared  l)y  his  opponents  and 
envied  by  the  entire  bar  of  his  state. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  really  have  any 
doubt  as  to  the  validity  of  that  will?''  said  Hargrove, 
taking  a  paper  between  his  thumb  and  finger  and  hold- 
ing it  toward  the  lawyer, 

"  AVell,  I  don't  know.  Gilman  has  been  feeling  round 
on  this  matter  a  right  smart  while,  and  now  he  has  got 
all  the  collateral  heirs  to  agree  and  is  going  to  bring  suit 
for  them  to  the  Fall  Term.  There  ain't  any  doubt 
about  that.  Now,  Gilman  isn't  the  sort  of  a  man  that 
stakes  on  a  jolay  he  don't  think  has  a  fair  chance  of  win- 
ning, and  I  may  be  alloAved  to  say  I  am  hardly  the  man 
he  'd  try  to  blufi"  on  a  weak  hand.  Whatever  else  may 
be  said  of  Matthew  Bartlemy,  it 's  pretty  well  settled 
that  he  don't  scare  easy." 

The  short,  erect  figure  that  sat  opposite  Merwyn  Har- 
grove just  moved  as  a  low  chuckle  escaped  the  lips.  The 
small  gray  eyes  peered  keenly  over  the  gold-bowed 
glasses  on  his  nose  as  he  passed  his  hand  over  the  round 
solid  forehead  that  rose  like  a  dome  springing  from  the 
red  face  and  gray,  furzy  brows  below.  The  trim  old 
man,  whose  head  seemed  to  rest  almost  upon  the  mas- 
sive shoulders,  so  short  and  stout  was  the  neck  that  up- 
held it,  was  the  very  embodiment  of  courage.  Har- 
grove laughed,  despite  his  evident  vexation,  at  the  grim 
humor  of  the  old  man's  allusion  to  his  well-earned  repu- 
tation. Bartlemy  laid  down  his  pen,  emptied  his  glass, 
and,  turning  toward  his  auditor  a  little  more  squarely, 


''FOR    THE   OLOllY  OF.  GOD/'  185 

raised  a  silver-headed  caiie  that  had  rested  against  the 
arm  of  his  chair,  crossed  his  hands  upon  it,  and,  still 
sitting  bolt  upright,  continued  : 

"Now,  Gilman  thinks  he  can  overthrow  that  will, 
but  he  isn't  sure  about  some  things.  If  he  'd  been  en- 
tirely sure  he  wouldn't  ever  have  come  to  me  with  a 
proposition  of  compromise.  He  would  have  brought 
suit  and  waited  for  me  to  go  to  him.  He  ain't  in  any 
hurry.  He  knows  you  're  good  ;  but  there's  something 
in  the  way.  I  know  him  so  well  that  I  can  tell  his  state 
of  mind  almost  as  quick  as  he  can  himself  He  thinks 
he  sees  his  way  through  that  will,  Captain  Hargrove. 
There  ain't  any  other  way  to  his  end.  If  that  will  is 
good  the  collateral  heirs  of  George  Eighmie  have  no 
more  claim  to  his  estate  than  the  King  of  Timbuctoo— 
not  a  bit." 

The  old  man  stamped  the  floor  with  his  cane,  raised 
his  glasses  to  his  forehead  and  leaned  forward  with 
flushed  face  and  burning  eyes  as  he  uttered  this  conclu- 
sion at  which  he  had  arrived. 

"  But  why  ?"  queried  Hargrove.  "•  There  is  no  doubt 
of  its  being  George's  will,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Kot  a  bit,"  said  Bartlemy.  "It  has  every  element 
of  a  valid  holographic  will,  which  was  duly  ascertained 
when  it  was  admitted  to  probate.  Besides,  that  question 
cannot  be  raised  by  these  heirs.  Every  one  of  them  had 
due  notice,  and  that  question  is  decided." 

"What,  then,  can  be  their  ground  of  action  V" 

"That's  just  what  I  set  myself  to  find  out.  As  I 
said,  I  know  Gilman.  Thei'e's  just  this  difference  be- 
tween him  and  me  :  he  ain't  afraid  of  anything  he  can 
see,  and  I  am  not  troubled  about  anything  I  can't  see. 
So  I  set  out  to  find  first  what  sort  of  a  hole  the  damned 
rascal  had  found  in  that  will  to  make  him  think  he  could 
drive  a  cart  and  oxen  through  it ;  and,  in  the  second 
place,  what  there  wa.s  behind  it  to  scare  him  after  he 


186  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

got  through ;  and  I  've  found  out  both,  Captain  Har- 
grove 1" 

"You  have?" 

"I  have.  The  hole  he's  found  in  the  will — or  thinks 
he's  found — is  that  piece  of  sentimental  foolishness,  '  for 
the  glory  of  God.'  " 

"What  ?"  inquired  Hargrove  in  surprise. 

"  Tor  the  glory  of  God,'  sir,  '  for  the  glory  of  God  ;' 
that's  it.  If  ever  Gilman  or  any  one  else  gets  past  that 
will,  that's  just  where  he  '11  drive  through." 

"  I  don't  see  how  that  can  affect  it." 

"That's  just  what  the  idiot  thought  who  wrote  it. 
Confound  the  fool,  if  he  had  just  let  me  draw  it,  there  'd 
never  been  any  such  chance.  Religion  hasn't  any  place 
in  a  will  anyhow,  and  I  shouldn't  have  wasted  any  in 
that  way." 

"I  presume  not,"  said  Hargrove,  with  a  smile  "though 
I  cannot  see  what  harm  George's  weak  attempt  at  piety 
can  do." 

"That's  it — that's  just  it.  The  man  was  a  coward. 
He  hadn't  pluck  enough  to  do  what  he  wanted  done 
himself,  and  so  naturally  distrusted  you." 

"  I  do  not  see  that,"  said  the  other. 

"  You  don't  see  it  ?  Why,  he  had  some  sort  of  an  un- 
derstanding with  you,  and  so  made  you  his  heir,  with  a 
secret  trust  that  you  should  do  some  particular  thing 
with  his  estate,  didn't  he  ?"" 

"Yes,"  responded  Hargrove.  "He  had  talked  with 
me  very  freely  of  what  he  wished  done,  and  I  had  pro- 
mised him  repeatedly  that,  if  he  left  it  to  me,  I  would 
not  take  a  cent  of  it  for  myself,  but  would—" 

"There,  there,"  interrupted  Bartlemy,  striking  his 
cane  on  the  floor  and  stamping  so  as  effectually  to  drown 
the  other's  words,  "haven't  I  told  you  a  hundred  times 
that  I  don't  want  to  know  anything  about  that  ?  A 
secret  trust  ought  to  be  kept  secret,  aod  especially  roust 


''FOR   THE   GLORT  OF  GOD."  187 

not  l)e  inferable  from  the  teniis  of  a  bequest.  Now,  if 
he  'd  been  the  kind  of  man  you  are,  Captain,  he  'd  have 
trusted  3^ou  without  any  doubt  to  do  just  as  you  had 
promised." 

"Why,  so  he  did,  Mr.  Bartlemy,"  interposed  Har- 
grove. 

"  Did,  eh  ?  Then  what  did  he  put  in  that  confounded 
'  glory  of  God  '  clause  for  ?" 

"  Why  to  remind  me  of  my  promise,  I  suppose,"  said 
Hargrove. 

"That's  it — that's  just  it  !"  said  Bartlemy,  springing 
from  his  chair,  and  beginning  to  pace  up  and  down  the 
floor.  "He  thought  he  must  prick  up  your  conscience 
by  some  sort  of  a  hint  that  you  alone  would  under- 
stand. The  infernal  fool !  That 's  always  the  way  with 
a  man  that  hasn't  pluck  enough  to  get  a  lawyer  to  draw 
his  will,  but  sneaks  off  alone  and  writes  it  himself,  and 
leaves  a  court  to  find  out  whether  it  is  legal  or  not." 

"  Still,"  said  Haxgrove,  "  I  do  not  see  how  this  hint, 
as  you  call  it,  can  affect  the  validity  of  his  will." 

"I  don't  say  it  does,"  retorted  Bartlemy,  "but  it 
may.  It  depends  entirely  on  whether  a  court  holds  it 
to  be  a  hint,  and,  if  so,  what  kind  of  a  hint  they  think 
it  is." 

"  Don't  almost  all  wills  have  a  similar  clause, '  In  the 
name  of  God,  Amen,'  or  something  of  the  sort  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  and  if  we  can  only  make  the  court  believe 
that  this  is  a  sort  of  amen  clause,  or  a  mere  pious  ejacu- 
lation, it  will  be  all  right.  But  that 's  the  trouble. 
Scholar  as  he  was,  George  Eighmie  wasn't  over-inclined 
to  piety.  He  wasn't  so  desperately  given  to  religious 
exhoi'tation  and  you  weren't  so  badly  in  need  of  it,  es- 
pecially from  him,  that  he  would  be  very  likely  to  send 
you  a  sermon  in  so  short  a  will  as  that.  Here,  let  me 
read  it." 

The  old  man  caught  the  paper  from  Hargrove's  hand. 


188  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

thrust  it  down  into  the  circle  of  light  near  the  lamp, 
worked  his  eyebrows  up  and  down  with  a  quick  twitch- 
ing movement  that  brouglit  his  eye-glasses  down  upon 
his  nose,  and  read  : 

"I  give  and  bequeath  all  my  real  and  personal  property 
of  which  I  may  die  seized  and  possessed,  and  all  my  ne- 
groes— " 

"That  is  all  right,"  said  the  old  man,  gesticulating 
with  the  head  of  his  cane  in  his  left  hand.  "He  might 
have  left  out  '  real '  and  '  personal, '  but  they  do  no 
harm ;  and,  having  used  them,  it  was  well  enough  to 
mention  '  negroes  '  particularly,  too,  for  they  are  hardly 
one  or  the  other — a  sort  of  '  chattel-real, '  the  courts  have 
sometimes  called  them."     Then  he  read  on  : 

— "to  my  half-brother,  Captain  Merwyn  Hargrove," 

"If  the  fool  had  only  stopped  there  I  should  not  have 
been  coming  up  here  on  any  trumped-up  story  about 
seeing  a  Xew  York  doctor,  especially  as  I  haven't  had 
any  call  for  a  doctor  at  home  in  sixty  odd  years.  Now 
here  's  the  trouble  :" 

— "to  hold  and  use  according  to  the  dictates  of  his  con- 
science and  for  the  glory  of  God." 

"There  it  is,  just  as  plain  as  'olack  and  Avhite  can 
make  it,  that  he  meant  to  constitute  you  his  trustee  and 
not  his  heir.  At  least  it  seems  so  to  me,  and  I  am 
afraid  will  appear  so  to  the  court." 

"Weil,  what  of  it?" 

"Wliat  of  it?  Well,  there  is  a  good  deal  of  it.  In 
the  first  place,  if  that  is  admitted,  the  court  Avill  want  to 
know  what  sort  of  a  trust  it  was,  and  whether  it  Avas  a 
lawful  one  or  not." 

"Hasn't  a  man  a  right  to  dispose  of  his  property  as 
he  chooses  ?" 

"  We  sometimes  say  so,  Captain,  but  it  isn't  true — 
uot  by  a  great  de^.1.     Let  us  suppose  now  t-liat  this  trust 


''FOR   THE   GLORY  OF  GOD/'  180 

your  brother  hinted  at  was  that  you  should  use  the  pro- 
ceeds of  his  estate  to  build  a  school  or  a  college,  or  anj" 
similar  charity.     Then  it  would  be  all  right." 

"The  purpose  was  certainly  a  charitable  one,"  said 
Hargrove. 

"•  Tut,  tut !  I  don't  want  to  know  what  it  was.  Re- 
member that.  But  now  let  las  suppose  again  that  it  was 
given  to  you  in  order  that  you  might  take  care  of  that 
woman  he  called  his  wife  and  the  children  he  had  by 
her.  * ' 

"Well." 

"  Or  suppose  this  was  only  part  of  it,  and  the  rest  was 
that  you  should  free  his  slaves  and  use  the  estate  to 
make  them  comfortable  and  help  them  make  their  own 
living." 

"That  would  be  a  very  reasonable  supposition  from 
what  I  have  done,"  said  Merwyn  with  a  meaning  smile. 

"I'm  afraid  it  would,"  rejoined  Bartlemy,  "and  if 
the  court  should  be  of  that  notion  I  'm  afraid  the  will 
would  be  in  a  bad  way." 

"How  so  ?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  just  a  few  months  before  George  died 
the  Legislature  passed  an  act  declaring  that  slaves 
should  not  be  set  free  by  will.  You  see  it  was  getting 
to  be  a  common  thing  for  a  man  to  hold  niggers  as  long 
as  he  lived,  and  get  all  he  could  out  of  them,  and  then, 
just  at  the  last  minute,  set  them  free,  without  any  pro- 
vision for  their  support  or  anything  of  the  kind.  This 
'  free  nigger '  population,  scattered  all  through  the  coun- 
try, is  getting  to  be  a  dangerous  element,  corrupting  the 
slaves,  encouraging  them  to  steal  and  run  away,  and 
really  disturbing  the  peace  of  the  state.  Very  often, 
too,  it  worked  great  injury  to  creditors.  A  man  would 
perhaps  get  trusted  on  the  strength  of  his  slave  pro- 
perty, set  them  all  free,  die,  and  leave  his  creditors  to 
whistle  for  their  money.      Xow,  to  cure  this  evil,  the 


190  HOT  PLOWHHAREf<. 

Legislature  enacted  that  a  slave  should  only  be  manu- 
mitted by  leave  of  court  and  -svhen  the  owner  was  not 
indebted  to  any  considerable  extent.  Besides  this,  the 
owner  was  required  to  give  bond  for  the  negro's  good 
behavior,  and  to  provide  for  his  support  and  keep  him 
off  the  county.  This  didn't  quite  meet  the  evil,  and 
so  they  cut  off  testamentary  manumission  in  express 
terms." 

"But  that  is  not  this  case,  even  according  to  your 
supposition." 

"  Not  exactlj' ;  but  you  see  I  am  afraid  the  principle 
of  the  law  that  don't  allow  a  man  to  do  indirectlj'^  what 
he  is  forbidden  to  do  directly  may  come  in.  If  he  could 
not  set  his  niggers  free  by  Avill,  could  he  by  will  make 
you  his  agent  to  do  it  for  him  ?  Honestly,  Captain,  I 
don't  believe  he  could.  So,  if  the  court  should  think  it 
showed  a  trust,  and  should  infer  that  it  was  this  par- 
ticular kind  of  a  trust,  I  'm  of  the  notion  that  the  collate- 
rals would  recover." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Hargrove,  rising  and  Avalking  thought- 
fully across  the  room,  "and  what  about  the  woman  ?" 

"That's  the  very  question  I  came  here  to  ask  you," 
rejoined  the  lawyer.  "I  want  to  know  all  that  is  known 
about  that  Avoman  Lida  ;  and  I  want  to  see  every  scrap 
of  paper  j-ou  've  got  or  can  lay  hands  on  that  in  any  way 
relates  to  her.  I  'm  satisfied  that,  in  some  way  or  other, 
she  's  the  stumbling-block  that  is  in  Gilman's  way.  It 
isn't  in  the  will,  I  'm  sure  ;  and  after  that 's  past  I 
can't  see  anything  but  this  woman  and  her  children  to 
make  him  shy.  You  see,  if  the  will  is  set  aside,  the  es- 
tate goes  to  the  heirs-at-law,  and  the  next  question  to  be 
decided  is—'  Who  are  the  right  heirs  of  George  Eigh- 
mie  '  ?" 

Note. — The  chronological  sequence  of  legislation  and  decLsiou 
upon  the  points  embraced  in  this  chapter  it  has  not  been  attempt- 


''FOB    THE   GLORY  OF  GOD."  101 

ed  to  preserve.  In  most  of  the  Slave  States  a  part  of  this  legis- 
lation was  of  much  earlier  date  than  that  given  in  the  story, 
while  the  remainder  was  a  few  years  later.  In  nearly  all  of 
them,  however,  these  laws  were  enacted.  Indeed,  they  may  be 
said  to  have  grown  unavoidably  out  of  the  necessities  of  the  in- 
stitution. To  one  accustomed  to  regard  the  slave  as  a  man  they 
seem  harsh  and  cruel ;  to  one  accustomed  to  regard  him  as  prop- 
erty they  appear  only  reasonable  requirements  to  prevent  fraud 
and  avoid  the  growth  of  a  population,  of  necessity  dangerous  to 
property  endowed  with  the  power  of  locomotion  and  a  natural 
inclination  to  escape  from  the  restrictions  of  another's  will. 
Generally,  the  owner  of  slaves  could  manumit  by  will,  if  the  will 
provided  for  the  removal  of  the  persons  thus  freed  from  the 
state.  Even  this  was  not,  however,  permitted  in  some  states 
toward  the  last  years  of  the  existence  of  the  institution.  The 
condition  that  invalidated  the  will  of  George  Eighmie  is  copied 
from  a  reported  case  in  a  Southern  Supreme  Court.  It  sounds 
queerly  to  unaccustomed  ears,  but  is  unquestionably  good  law 
under  the  conditions  which  slavery  imposed.  The  increase  of 
the  free  negro  population  being  counted  against  public  policy, 
and  the  slave  himself  not  having  any  right  to  be  considered,  the 
conclusion  was  logical  and  just. 


CHAPTEE  XYI. 

BRACKISH    WATERS. 

"  Her  story  is  a  sad  one,  Mr.  Bartlemy.  If  it  was  not 
for  the  wreck  she  made  of  poor  George's  hfe  I  suppose 
I  should  pity  her  even  more  than  I  do,  for,  though  I 
don't  like  her,  I  must  say  she  has  had  a  hard  time." 

"  So  I  suppose,"  said  the  lawyer,  lightl}^  "though  I 
can't  say  I  care  much  about  that.  What  I  want  to 
know  is  just  what  her  relations  may  be  to  this  estate." 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  know  the  main  features  of  her 
history,"  began  Hargrove. 

"Don't  suppose  any  such  thing,"  said  Bartlemy, 
sharply.  "I  may  have  heard  a  great  deal,  but  I  want 
facts.  Just  tell  me  all  you  know  of  her,  directly  or 
indirectly,  from  first  to  last." 

He  pushed  his  spectacles  high  up  on  his  capacious 
forehead,  clasped  his  hands  on  the  head  of  his  cane  and 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  to  listen.  Now  and  then,  as  the 
story  proceeded,  he  reached  forward,  and,  lifting  the 
glass  to  his  lips,  took  a  sip  of  its  contents. 

"Alida  Barton,  as  she  Avas  called,"  said  Hargrove, 
when  he  saw  his  listener  was  ready  for  him  to  proceed, 
"was  certainly  a  pretty  girl  when  George  first  became 
a-cquainted  Avith  her.  It  was  while  he  Avas  in  college, 
and  she  was  supposed  to  be  the  daughter  of  a  poor 
Methodist  clergj'man,  who  officiated  at  that  time  in  the 
little  town  where  the  college  was  located.  She  was  a 
lithe,  coquettish  creature,  Avhose  jet  black  hair  clung  in 
close,  clustering  curls  about  her  head,  Avhile  her  spark- 
193 


BBACKItill   WATERS.  193 

ling  eyes,  full,  but  finely-shaped  lips,  and  cheeks  that 
showed  a  ruddy  bloom  through  a  dark,  soft  skin,  formed 
a  peculiarly  piquant  and  pleasing  picture." 

"You  needn't  mind  painting  her  portrait,"  growled 
the  lawyer;  "I  don't  want  to  buy  her;  and,  if  I  did, 
she  's  gaunt  enough  now,  I  '11  warrant." 

"I  was  only  excusing  George,  sir,"  said  Hargrove, 
apologetically.  "I  loved  him,  I  reckon,  as  well  as  man 
ever  loved  a  brother.  There  was  never  a  word  of  un- 
kindness  between  us,  and  the  poor  fellow  never  saw  the 
day  he  would  not  have  given  his  life  for  me.  Say  what 
they  may  of  him,  I  haven't  found  any  better  man  since 
his  father  died.  And,  for  that  matter,  though  the  old 
gentleman  did  cast  him  oflF,  I  doubt  if  he  would  have 
acted  differently,  under  the  circumstances,  himself" 

"  You  don't  mean  it !"  said  the  other  in  surprise. 

"  Every  word  of  it,"  said  Merwyn  warmly.  "  If  there 
ever  was  a  true-hearted,  honest,  clean-souled  man,  his 
name  was  George  Eighmie  !" 

"  I  thought  him  a  kind  of  mean-spirited  dawdler,  who 
let  this  woman  lead  him  by  the  nose,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"  He  was  a  quiet,  studious  fellow,  who  loved  his  ease, 
and  the  peculiar  troubles  that  he  encountered  made  him 
a  hermit ;  but  he  never  had  a  low  thought  and  could  not 
be  driven  or  hired  to  do  a  mean  thing. ' ' 

"I  thought,  as  he  had  broken  with  the  Colonel  and 
taken  up  this  woman,  there  must  be  something  Avrong 
about  him.  Of  course,  I  never  knew  much  of  him.  I 
was  the  Colonel's  counsel,  and  not  his,  and,  as  you  know, 
Peter  Eighmie  wasn't  given  to  talking  of  his  affairs,  even 
to  his  lawyer,  unless  it  was  actually  necessary." 

"  George  worshipped  this  woman.  There  is  no  doubt 
of  that,"  continued  Hargrove,  not  heeding  the  other's 
explanation,  "and  I  must  say,  after  all  she  has  suffered, 
she  is  a  woman  to  attract  any  one's  notice.  He  came 
home  from  college  engaged.     His  father  was  prejudiced 


194  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

against  her  from  the  outset,  not  so  much  on  account  of 
her  rank  in  hfe — for  she  had  been  fairly  well  educated, 
and  her  manner,  saving  a  sort  of  pertness  that  grew 
into  pride  and  suspicion  when  trouble  came  upon  her, 
Avas  certainly  that  of  a  lady — as  because  of  some  diffi- 
culty that  he  had  once  had  with  a  man  of  her  name, 
who  was,  I  believe,  a  distant  relative  of  her  father/' 

"  The  name  was  what,  did  you  say  ?" 

"Barton  —  Charles  Barton,  originally  of  Mecklin 
County." 

"  You  don't  say  V  Well,  go  on,"  said  the  lawyer,  with 
apparently  renewed  interest. 

''His  father's  opposition  was  a  serious  thing  to  George, 
but  as  it  was  based  <jn  nothing  more  substantial  than  the 
opinion  that  there  never  was  a  Barton  who  was  not  a 
mean-spirited,  low-down  cur,  he  did  not  feel  bound  to 
allow  it  to  influence  him." 

"Eight,  too,"  interrupted  the  lawyer.  "My  mother 
was  a  Barton  on  the  mother's  side." 

A  half-smile  crept  under  Hargrove's  moustache,  and 
his  eyes  twinkled  as  if  he  thought  the  reason  not  alto- 
gether conclusive.     He  went  on,  however  : 

"So  they  were  married,  and  came  to  Mallowbanks  to 
live.  His  father,  though  not  entirely  satisfied  at  first, 
was  soon  won  over,  George  wrote  me,  by  the  spirit  and 
brightness  of  the  young  wife,  and  everything  promised 
a  life  of  quiet  happiness  for  them.  George's  letters  to  me 
about  this  time  were  in  one  ceaseless  strain  of  satisfied 
delight.  And  it  is  no  wonder.  His  wife,  his  father,  his 
home  and  his  prospects  seemed  to  be  all  that  man  could 
ask.  I,  who  had  never  met  my  Rietta  then,  and  was  just 
a  roving,  jolly  young  lieutenant,  who  had  no  thought  of 
love  or  home — I  even  envied  him  his  blissful  prospects. 
Poor  fellow  !  I  have  thought  of  it  many  a  time  since 
with  shame  for  my  selfishness. 

"  Well,  things  went  on  in  this  way  for  something  like 


BRACKISH  WATERS.  195 

a  year,  when  one  morning,  while  they  were  at  breakfast, 
Salathiel  Jenkins,  the  nigger-trader  from  up  the  coun- 
try, came  with  a  couple  of  men  and  asked  for  George, 
They  were  shown  into  the  old  keeping-room,  which  you 
remember  at  Mallowbanks,  that  overlooked  the  river 
and  opened  off  the  dining-room.  G-eorge  and  his  wife 
were  at  breakfast,  but  Colonel  Eighmie  had  not  yet  left 
his  room.  George  went  to  them  at  once,  and  as  he 
came  into  the  room  they  could  see  Lida  sitting  at  the 
head  of  the  table.  Jenkins  told  him  he  had  come  to 
reclaim  a  nigger  gal  of  his  that  was  'harboring'  on 
the  plantation.  George  promptly  replied  that  he  had 
no  slaves  on  his  premises  except  those  that  had  always 
been  there.  You  know  it  was  the  boast  of  the  Eigh- 
mies  that  they  never  sold  a  slave  and  never  bought  ex- 
cept in  families.    He  was  sure  they  must  be  mistaken. 

"'Oh,  not  at  all,'  said  Jenkins,  with  that  infei-nal 
leer  that  drew  the  scar  on  his  face  almost  up  to  his 
eye  and  made  him  look  more  as  the  devil  ought  to  be 
painted  than  any  man  I  ever  saw." 

"Jenkins  wasn't  any  beauty,"  chuckled  the  lawyer, 
"especially  after  that  fight  with  Grinstead.  I  hap- 
pened to  see  it  myself  It  M'as  at  Martinburg  court. 
They  were  both  young  men,  and  Grinstead  had  sworn 
that  he  would  kill  him  on  sight,  as  I  reckon  he  ought  to 
have  done.  They  met  just  at  the  court-house  steps  and 
both  drew  their  knives.  There  was  some  pretty  spar- 
ring for  a  moment,  and  tben  Grinstead  got  his  point  in 
just  at  the  corner  of  Jenkins'  right  nostril  and  drove  it 
back  with  all  his  might.  It  ripped  Jenkins'  cheek  open 
clean  back  to  the  ear  and  left  a  mark  there's  no  mis- 
taking. But  while  Grinstead's  arm  was  up  doing  it, 
Jenkins  give  him  a  slash  across  the  middle  and  he 
never  stood  straight  afterwards.  Luckily  for  him  it 
wasn't  deep  enough  to  hit  a  vital  part,  or  Jenkins 
wouldn't  have  hved    to  trouble    anybody    else.     Grin- 


196  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

stead's  brothers  never  would  have  let  up  on  him  till 
they  had  shed  the  last  drop  of  blood  in  his  veins." 

"  So  I  have  heard.  Well,  Jenkiiw  said  thei'e  wasn't 
any  mistake,  because  he  had  seen  his  nigger  since  he 
had  come  into  the  room. 

"  '  Seen  her  ?    Where  '?'  asked  George. 

"  'In  the  dining-room,'  answered  Jenkins. 

"'There  is  no  one  there  but  the  regular  servants,' 
said  George,  'I  have  just  come  from  there.' 

"  He  felt  so  sure,  he  told  me,  that  he  would  not  go  to 
the  door  to  look  in. 

'"Oh,  yes,  there  is,'  said  Jenkins — 'sitting  at  the 
table.' 

"  'Why,  that  is  my  wife,  sir  !'  said  George. 

"  '  That  may  be  what  you  call  her,'  said  Jenkins,  'but 
I  know  she  is  my  slave  !' 

"  '  Jenkins  !'  said  George,  '  this  may  be  an  honest  mis- 
take on  your  part,  but  a  man  cannot  intimate  such  a 
thing  of  my  wife,  either  in  jest  or  earnest,  without  an- 
swering for  it. ' 

"Jenkins  wasn't  a  coward,  and  besides,  he  had  tAVO 
men  with  him  ;  so  he  did  not  flinch  at  George's  words, 
but  said  very  coolly  : 

"  'Mr.  Eighmie,  if  you  will  call  that  woman  in  here, 
should  she  not  recognize  me  and  own  that  she  's  my 
slave,  you  may  shoot  me  on  the  spot. ' 

"'Very  well,'  said  George,  'as  you  seem  so  sincere 
in  your  belief,  I  will  convince  you  of  your  mistake,  and 
you  shall  answer  for  it  afterwards.' 

"  So  he  called  Alida  in,  and,  leading  her  forward  on 
his  arm,  he  said  : 

"  '  My  dear,  do  you  recognize  either  of  these  men  ?' 

"She  looked  at  them  carelessly,  and  answered  in  the 
negative. 

"  'See  heiT,  Lida,'  said  Jenkins.  'You  don't  mean  to 
say  you've  done  ibrgot  \\\v  an'  your  mammy,  that  yaller 


BEACKISII    WATERS.  197 

girl,  Sophy,  that  I  bought  of  Dr.  Gant  ?  Oh,  no,'  he 
continued,  with  his  usual  grin,  and  hitching  nearer  to 
her  on  that  one  short  leg,  '  Oh,  no  !  It 's  a  right  smart 
while  ago,  and  you  was  only  a  bit  of  a  gal,  but  you 
hain't  forgot  that  nor  me  either. ' 

"  It 's  a  wonder  George  didn't  kill  him  in  his  tracks," 
said  the  lawyer. 

"It's  what  he  ought  to  have  done,"  said  Merwyn, 
emphatically,  "  and  what  he  would  have  done,  if  his  at- 
tention had  not  been  turned  to  his  wife." 

"What  did  she  do?" 

"  She  looked  at  Jenkins  at  first  in  surprise.  Then  her 
eyes  distended  in  mortal  terror.  She  threw  up  her 
hands,  and  shriek  after  shriek  rang  through  the  house. 
She  fell  in  spasms  just  as  Colonel  Eighmie  entered  the 
room." 

"Wh — e — w !"  said  the  attorney  with  a  long  low 
whistle. 

"There  wasn't  any  doubt  about  the  facts  when  they 
came  to  investigate  them,"  said  Hargrove,  not  noticing 
the  lawyer's  interruption.  "Jenkins  had  a  bill  of  sale 
for  the  woman  Sophy  and  her  daughter  Lida.  Lida 
herself  confirmed  the  trader's  report,  though  she  per- 
sisted in  declaring  that  Sophy  was  not  her  mother. 
Though  she  was  not  three  years  old  Avhen  separated  from 
her,  she  has  always  asserted  that  Sophy  declared  she 
was  not  her  child,  but  that  hers  had  died,  and  she  had 
been  given  her  to  nurse.  To  this  day  she  declares  that 
Sophy  used  to  cry  for  her  own  baby,  and  tell  her  that 
she  was  the  daughter  of  a  great  lady." 

"It's  queer  how  many  pretty  quadroons  get  that  no- 
tion," said  Bai'tlemy.  "I  suppose  it  is  the  natural  re- 
volt of  the  white  blood  against  slavery." 

"It  did  not  seem  to  have  any  good  foundation  in  her 
case,"  said  Hargrove.  "Dr.  Gant  and  his  wife  were 
both  dead,  and  left  no  children  :  but  the  neighbors  re- 


198  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

membered  Sophy,  who  was  a  bright  young  mulatto,  be- 
longing to  him ;  also  the  fact  of  her  having  a  child  and 
being  sold.  There  was  some  laugh  about  his  wife's 
jealousy  being  the  cause  of  the  sale,  which  fixed  the  fact 
in  their  memory.  After  his  wife  died,  according  to 
Jenkins,  and  others,  too,  the  Doctor  tried  to  trace  the 
girl,  and  was  especially  anxious  about  the  child. 

"  Jenkins,  on  his  part,  said  the  child  was  a  puny  thing 
— that  he  had  no  idea  it  would  live.  The  mother  was  a 
strong,  handsome  woman,  and  the  care  of  the  child,  as 
well  as  its  sickly  appearance,  was  likely  to  affect  her 
value.  As  he  was  on  the  way  to  New  Orleans,  where 
such  stock  always  sells  high,  and  had  besides  a  large 
gang,  he  concluded  to  abandon  the  child.  So,  after  she 
was  asleep  he  took  her  to  a  house  near  where  they  were 
camping  for  the  night,  and  left  her  upon  the  porch. 

"It  happened  to  be  the  house  of  the  childless  itine- 
rant, Charles  Barton.  Owing  to  her  complexion,  which 
was  even  more  misleading  because  of  the  pallor  of  dis- 
ease, there  was  no  thought  of  the  child  being  of  colored 
blood  and  especially  no  idea  that  it  was  a  slave.  People 
are  not  apt  to  abandon  slave  children,  and  even  in  this 
case  it  seems  to  have  been  just  a  trick  of  that  scoundrel 
Jenkins.  I  suppose  he  hardly  liked  to^  kill  her  for  fear 
of  consequences,  and  probably  had  no  thought  that  she 
would  live.  There  was  some  inquiry  made,  but  nothing 
elicited  as  to  the  parentage,  and  so  the  good  couple  took 
the  little  waif  into  their  homes  and  hearts  as  their 
daughter. ' ' 

"  My  God  !  that  was  rough  on  George  and  the  Colonel, 
wasn't  it  ?    What  did  they  do  ?'' 

"What  could  they  do  ?  The  Colonel  bought  the  girl 
of  Jenkins  at  his  own  price,  and  then  told  him  he  would 
shoot  him  on  sight  if  he  ever  came  into  the  county 
again,  or  if  he  ever  breathed  a  word  about  the  matter 
to  a  living  soul." 


BRACKISH   WATERS.  199 

"  No  doubt  he  meant  it,  too.'' 

"Of  course;  from  that  day  until  his  death  he  never 
went  off  the  plantation  without  carrying  a  pistol  to 
'shoot  that  d d  scoundrel  Jenkins.'  " 

"And  George  ?" 

"  His  father  gave  the  girl  to  him — " 

"There  was  a  deed,  I  suppose,"  interrupted  the 
lawyer. 

"  Yes,  a  deed  of  gift  under  seal." 

The  lawyer  nodded. 

"His  father  advised  him  to  take  her  North,  set  her 
free,  buy  her  a  comfortable  home  and  give  her  a  reason- 
able support." 

"Very  liberal,  by  God!  as  the  old  man  always  was, 
and  just  what  George  ought  to  have  done." 

"With  our  notions,  yes,  but  not  with  George  Eigh- 
mie's.  In  the  first  place,  he  loved  the  girl  better  than 
his  life  ;  and,  in  the  next  place,  he  did  not  believe 
there  was  a  drop  of  colored  blood  in  her  veins.  So, 
what  does  he  do  but  bring  her  to  New  York,  manumit 
her  in  due  form  and  marry  her  again." 

"The  devil!  You  don't  tell  me?"  said  Bartlemy, 
springing  from  his  chair.     "  I  never  heard  of  that. " 

"Here  are  the  papers.  These  are  copies — Lida  has 
the  originals — of  the  deed  of  manumission,  the  license 
and  marriage  certificate." 

"Well,  I  declare !" 

"Not  only  that,  but  about  this  time  a  child  was  born 
— a  son,  who,  by  the  way,  was  cursed  with  the  exact 
duplicate  of  that  scar  of  Jenkins, — and  so  anxious  Avas 
George  to  put  him  on  a  legal  footing  that  he  formally 
legitimatized  him  according  to  the  laws  of  the  state. 
Here  is  a  copy  of  the  recoxxl." 

"Good  Lord!"  exclaimed  the  lawyer,  "was  there 
any  other  foolish  thing  that  idiot  could  do  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.    What  he  did  iiejct  was  a  deal  worse.    He 


200  HOT  PLOWiSHARES. 

went  back  to  Mallovvbanks  and  presented  himself  and 
family  to  Colonel  Eighmie. ' ' 

"No!"  roared  Bartleiuy,  striking  the  floor  with  his 
cane.     "  He  didn't  dare  do  that  ?" 

"He  did  that  very  thing." 

"And  the  Colonel?" 

"Turned  on  his  heel;  went  down  to  the  landing; 
was  rowed  over  to  Amity  Lake,  and  never  looked  on 
his  son's  face  again," 

"Served  him  right,  too,  just  right,"  exclaimed  the 
lawyer  almost  gleefully. 

"Did  the  only  mean  act  of  his  life,  sir,"  said  Har- 
grove gravely. 

"What,  sir  !  do  you  mean  to  justify  such  an  outrage- 
ous thing  ?  "Would  you  associate  with  a  man  who  mar- 
ries a  nigger?" 

"That  is  not  the  question,"  rejoined  Hargrove. 
"  George  married  the  girl  without  any  deception  on  her 
part.  Her  memory  of  the  trader  and  that  of  her  '  mam- 
my,' as  she  no  doubt  called  the  girl  Sophy,  was  only  of  a 
horrid  man  who  had  taken  her  and  her  nurse  from  home. 
All  she  knew  of  her  past  life  was  that  she  had  been  told 
that  her  mother  was  a  '  great  lady. '  This  was  the  account 
she  gave  of  herself  to  her  foster-parents.  Being  so  fair 
and  so  young — she  could  not  have  been  over  three  years 
old — I  do  not  suppose  the  idea  of  slavery  had  ever  entered 
her  mind,  at  least  in  connection  with  herself.  The  kind 
people  with  whom  she  had  lived  afterwards  had  made  an 
idol  of  her.  George  had  made  her  his  wife,  so  far  as  intent 
could  go.  She  was  the  mother  of  his  child.  Her  kind 
foster-mother  was  dead — died  of  grief  at  her  calamity. 
Under  these  circumstances,  George  thought  it  his  duty 
to  share  the  misfortune  that  had  fallen  on  the  woman 
that  he  loved,  be  it  more  or  less,  as  you  lawyers  say, 
and  I  honor  his  memory  for  having  done  it.  I  might 
not  have  had  the  pluck,  and  of  course  you  wouldn't," 


BRACKISH  WATERS.  201 

he  added  with  a  slight  smile,  "but  I'll  tell  you  what, 
sir,  when  a  man  loves  a  woman  well  enough  to  go  to  hell 
with  her  rather  than  to  heaven  Avithout  her,  he  's  bound 
to  be  very  much  of  a  man  !■' 

"  There  's  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  that,"  said  the  other 
thoughtfully. 

"  That 's  why  I  say  Colonel  Eighmie  was  wrong.  He 
ought  to  have  stood  by  George  because  he  had  acted  with 
a  manly  motive,  and  at  the  worst  hurt  only  himself.  If 
he  had  done  so,  and  sent  them  West  at  once,  there  never 
would  have  been  any  trouble  about  it.  But  he  was  like 
most  Southern  men — he  never  could  realize  that  there 
was  a  world  beyond  his  own  horizon.  He  never  dreamed 
that  a  reputation  shattered  by  an  indiscretion  at  home 
might  be  healed  and  cured  by  a  life  of  honor  abroad." 

"There's  where  he  was  wrong.  He  ought  to  have 
remembered  that  one  of  the  greatest  men  the  State  ever 
produced  had  to  leave,  it  is  said,  because  of  a  little  mis- 
take about  some  money.  He  went  West  and  never 
came  back  until  he  was  one  of  the  foremost  .men  in  the 
United  States  Senate.  If  he  had  been  a  lawyer.  Colonel 
Eighmie  would  never  have  made  that  mistake.  If  he 
had  confided  in  me  I  should  have  told  him  the  best  Avay 
to  get  rid  of  a  son  he  didn't  want  to  see  was  to  send  him 
out  of  his  sight.  It  seems  just  natural,  though,  for  a 
planter  to  think  that  there  isn't  much  room  in  the  world 
outside  of  his  own  possessions.  That  life  does  narrow  a 
man's  ideas  wonderfully." 

"Yes;  that  is  so.  Well,  the  Colonel  never  thought 
of  that  or  anything  else,  except  that  George  had  dis- 
graced him.  So,  while  he  let  him  live  on  the  planta- 
tion and  enjoy  its  revenues,  he  yet  gave  him  no  right  to 
the  least  thing,  and  refused  all  intercourse  with  him." 

"  Well,  what  was  the  upshot  of  it  ?" 

"Just  what  you  might  suppose.  While  there  was  of 
course  an  efibrt  to  suppress  the  facts,  they  had  somehow 


202  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

leaked  out— partly  known  and  partly  guessed  at,  no 
doubt.  I  question  if  ever  a  word  would  have  been  said 
if  his  father  had  stood  by  him.  After  that,  you  know 
the  scorn  and  insult  that  was  heaped  upon  them.  Of 
course,  it  drove  him  into  solitude.  I  think  she  would 
have  faced  it  and  braved  it  down,  but  he  couldn't.  His 
hands  were  tied,  he  had  no  means,  and  could  not  get 
aAvay  ;  and  so,  for  years,  he  never  left  the  plantation.  I 
came  home  and  took  his  part,  but  it  Avas  too  late.  I 
never  dared  speak  to  Colonel  Eighmie  about  it,  and  my 
wife  loved  him  so  well  that  she  hated  George  as  only 
one  of  her  blood  can  hate.  I  think  this  family  shame 
was  more  than  half  the  cause  of  her  hating  slavery  as 
fiercely  as  she  did." 

"She  was  an  Italian,  I  believe  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  married  her  abroad  ?" 

"In  London." 

"  Yes  ;  I  saw  her  once  ;  a  very  pretty  woman." 

"  She  was  accounted  a  beauty." 

"I  never  knew  you  had  a  child  until  to-day." 

"She  was  born  while  we  were  on  a  cruise — at  King- 
ston, where  I  had  taken  Eietta  in  the  hope  that  a  South- 
ern winter  would  do  her  good.  Because  of  her  weak- 
ness, she  was  persuaded  when  we  sailed  to  leave  the 
child  with  the  family  of  an  English  clergyman,  who 
cared  for  her  until  she  was  nearly  three  years  old." 

"  I  thought  she  had  seen  hotter  sunshine  than  you  get 
up  here." 

"Oh,  yes;  Hilda  is  at  least  semi-tropical,  both  by 
birth  and  descent." 

"  I  see.  "Well,  is  there  anything  more  about  this  wo- 
man Lida  ?" 

"Oh,  yes;  her  troubles  were  not  ended  with  the  es- 
trangement of  her  husband  from  his  father  and  the  public 
sentiment  that  marked  them  and  their  children  as  the  most 


BRACKISH  WATERS.  203 

degraded  of  pariahs.  After  a  time  the  Colonel  died,  and 
a  surge  of  wrath  swept  through  the  community,  as  if  they 
had  been  guilty  of  parricide.  Perhaps,  in  his  later  years, 
the  heart  of  the  father  had  softened  toward  his  unfortu- 
nate son.  At  least,  he  made  no  attempt  to  disinherit 
him,  and,  dying  intestate,  his  property  descended  to 
George.  What  the  son  had  suffered  had  not  only  made 
him  a  hermit,  but  he  had  also  become  one  of  the  most 
rabid  and  fanatical  Abolitionists  that  ever  breathed." 

"An  Abolitionist!  That  is  all  that  was  needed  to 
complete  the  picture  that  you  have  drawn,"  said  Bar- 
tlemy,  with  evident  disgust.  "There  was  more  sense 
in  his  being  such,  however,  than  any  of  these  rabid  fools 
that  howl  and  foam  through  the  North  about  what  they 
know  nothing  of,  and  in  which  they  have  no  interest." 

"Well,  George  was  an  Abolitionist,  right  or  wrong, 
and  made  up  his  mind  as  soon  as  Mallowbanks  and  its 
slaves  fell  into  his  hands  to  set  them  free  without  delay 
and  then  go  himself  to  some  part  of  the  great  West 
where  he  thought  slavery  would  never  come.  Unfortu- 
nately, his  estate  was  not  large  enough  to  permit  him 
to  do  this  just  out  of  hand,  Avithout  impoverishing 
himself.  The  plantation  had  reached  that  stage,  by  rea- 
son of  the  increase  of  its  slave  force,  that  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  make  any  great  profit  cmt  of  it  without  re- 
ducing the  consumption  by  disposing  of  some  of  them. 
He  determined,  however,  after  due  consideration,  to 
devote  the  net  proceeds  of  each  crop  to  the  creation  of 
a  fund  which  should  be  sufficient  not  only  to  remove  the 
slaves  to  another  state  when  freed,  but  also,  with  a 
portion  of  the  proceeds  arising  from  the  sale  of  the 
plantation,  to  give  each  family  a  comfortable  start  in 
the  new  life  which  he  proposed  to  bestow  upon  them. 
He  told  me  all  his  plans,  and,  though  I  regarded  them 
as  visionary,  I  could  not  but  respect  his  earnestness 
and  admire  the  sagacity  he  showed  in  their  execution. 


204  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

His  new  purpose  transformed  the  listless  recluse  into  the 
active  and  unresting  business  man.  He  calculated  that 
live  years  would  be  sufficient  for  the  purpose  he  had  in 
view,  and  he  allowed  himself  no  luxur}"^  and  spared  him- 
self no  labor  tending  to  its  accomplishment.  .Soon  after 
he  undertook  this  task  another  child  was  bom  to  them 
— a  daughter  whom  the  mother  called  Heloise.  Her 
birth  seemed  to  ai'ouse  the  hatred  of  the  people  even 
more  than  all  that  had  gone  before.  He  and  Lida  were 
indicted  for  living  together  illegally.  The  matter  dragged 
along  for  several  terms  of  court  and  nothing  was  done, 
at  least  no  trial  took  place.  I  suspect,  from  what  has 
since  occurred,  that  the  collateral  heirs  may  have  been 
at  the  bottom  of  the  prosecution,  fearing,  perhaps,  the 
accomplishment  of  his  purpose  in  his  lifetime." 

"It's  more  than  likely,  for  I've  heard  myself  of  his 
having  that  fool-notion  among  others.  But,  no  matter, 
go  on." 

''  At  length,  just  as  it  was  about  to  come  to  trial,  George 
suddenly  died,  I  was  not  there  at  the  time,  and,  queerly 
enough,  Lida  did  not  know  where  to  find  his  will.  I 
knew  he  had  made  me  his  executor,  and  he  had  told  me, 
in  connection  with  his  plans,  where  he  kept  his  will,  and 
I  knew  just  what  he  expected  me  to  do.  It  was  to  carry 
out  his  plan  with  regard  to  his  slaves  and  to  see  that 
his  children  grew  up  entirely  unconscious  of  the  stain 
upon  their  birth.  In  regard  to  this  latter  he  was  very 
emphatic.  The  question  of  administering  on  his  estate 
arising  before  my  return,  Lida  showed  splendid  pluck  in 
urging  her  claim  as  his  Avidow  to  be  appointed  adminis- 
tratrix. She  also  claimed  dower  and  her  year's  provi- 
sion." 

"Pluck?  Do  you  call  that  pluck,  Mr.  Hargrove?" 
cried  the  lawyer,  impetuously,  "I  call  it  d d  impu- 
dence," 

"  Well,  whichever  it  may  be,  it  saved  her  and  the  es- 


BRACKISH   WATERS.  205 

tate  both.  I  came  just  before  the  matter  was  decided. 
The  court  below  had  pronounced  her  marriage  illegal 
and  the  higher  one  had  it  before  it  on  appeal.  I  found 
the  will — and  the  rest  you  know." 

"  I  know  that  you  proved  it  and  entered  into  posses- 
sion, and  all  that  touches  the  legal  history  of  your  ad- 
ministration. I  can  now  understand  why  you  did,  from 
time  to  time,  certain  absurd  things  which  I  advised  you 
not  to  do." 

"  Yes  ;  I  freed  the  house-servants  in  order  to  run  the 
plantation  more  economically,  and  so  increase  the  fund 
more  rapidly ;  but  it  has  already  taken  me  longer  than 
George  expected,  chiefly  because  I  determined  to  make 
the  slaves  pay  for  their  own  freedom  and  save  the  estate 
intact  for  Lida  and  her  children.  Then,  too,  the  search 
for  the  boy—" 

"Yes  ;  I  want  to  know  about  that." 

"There  is  very  little  to  tell.  About  the  time  we 
offered  the  will  for  probate  the  child  was  missed  from 
the  house  one  evening,  but  his  mother  was  not  greatly 
alarmed  at  first,  as  she  supposed  him  to  be  over  at  the 
quarters,  hardly  half  a  mile  away.  Upon  inquiiy, 
however,  it  appeared  that  no  one  on  the  plantation 
had  seen  him  since  noon.  His  mother  was  sure  that 
he  had  been  kidnapped,  but  we  thought  that  being 
so  peculiarly  marked  it  would  be  no  difficult  matter 
to  trace  him.  It  never  entered  into  my  head  at  the 
time  that  he  might  be  put  out  of  the  way  entirely. 
I  at  once  removed  Lida  and  her  daughter  to  the  yacht, 
which  was  lying  in  the  sound,  and  sent  her  to  New 
York  to  get  her  out  of  harm's  way.  Then  I  set  myself 
to  find  that  boy.  I  had  every  slave-market  watched  ; 
offered  a  liberal  reward,  of  which  every  slave-dealer  in 
the  country  was  informed,  and  was  just  about  to  give 
up  all  hope,  concluding  that  the  boy  was  dead,  when, 
after  he  had  been  missing  two  years,  I  heard  of  a  poor 


206  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

white  family  in  Western  Carolina,  away  up  among  the 
mountains,  who  had  a  child  answering  my  description. 
Before  I  could  reach  there,  however,  they  were  gone. 
By  dint  of  careful  inquir}-,  I  learned  that  Jenkins  had 
been  in  that  region  not  long  before  their  flitting,  and 
from  some  facts  I  gathered  had  no  doubt  that  he 
had  something  to  do  with  their  departure.  He  proba- 
bly learned  that  I  was  on  the  scent  and  spirited  away 
not  only  the  child,  but  the  people  who  had  him  in 
charge,  to  avoid  discovery.  I  have  been  on  a  constant 
hunt  for  the  child  ever  since,  but  have  not  found  the 
least  trace  of  him,  or  the  people  who  had  him.  My 
agents  have  gone  through  every  state  of  the  South  upon 
the  search  for  him  in  vain.  There  is  no  doubt  in  my 
mind  but  some  of  George's  cousins  kidnapped  little 
Hugh  and  intended  to  do  the  same  with  the  daughter, 
in  order  to  induce  the  mother  to  forego  any  further 
claims  to  the  estate." 

"That's  more  than  likely,  and  it  chimes  in  with  my 
theory  that  the  woman  and  her  children  are  the  stum- 
bling-block in  Oilman's  path, ' '  said  the  law^-er.  ' '  Though 
the  inferior  court  decided,  on  her  petition  for  doAver  and 
leave  to  administer,  that  she  was  not  the  lawful  wife 
of  George  Eighmie,  I  'm  not  exactly  sure  that  it  was 
right.  The  first  marriage  was  no  doubt  void,  because 
she  was  a  slave.  The  effect  of  the  second  one  it  is 
hard  to  determine.  If  the}^  had  been  married  in  Caro- 
lina the  presumption  would  have  been  against  its  le- 
gality. Having  been  a  slave,  she  is  presumed  to  have 
at  least  one-eighth  of  colored  blood.  As  her  descent  is 
unknown,  I  hardly  see  how  this  presumption  could  be 
rebutted.  So  I  think  the  second  marriage  would  have 
been  held  to  be  contrary  to  the  law  of  the  state  regard- 
ing intermarriages  between  whites  and  free  blacks  if  it 
had  been  solemnized  there." 

"■  But  the  marriage  was  in  Xew  York,"  said  Hargrove. 


BRACKISH   WATERS.  207 

"So  I  understand,"  answered  Bartleni}',  "and  that 
makes  a  queer  state  of  affairs.  Tlie  marriage  Avould  be 
illegal  here,  I  reckon — it  would  in  most  Northern  States 
— if  the  woman  was  actually  colored.  But  here  the  pre- 
sumption is  right  the  other  way.  It  would  be  necessary 
to  show  colored  blood  in  her  veins  affirmatively,  before 
she  could  be  adjudged  a  negro  and  the  marriage  invali- 
dated. So,  I  take  it,  the  marriage  would  be  held  lawful 
in  the  State  of  New  York." 

"If  lawful  there,  where  it  was  contracted,  I  suppose 
it  would  be  held  lawful  in  Carolina  ?"  said  Hargrove. 

"Well,  no,"  responded  Bartlemy  ;  "that  doesn't  fol- 
low. It  has  been  decided  in  our  state  that  if  parties  who 
are  prohibited  by  its  laws  from  marrying  go  beyond  its 
limits,  and  contract  marriage  according  to  the  laws  of 
another  state,  and  then  return  there  to  live,  that  It  is  in 
fraud  of  the  law,  and  void." 

"So  she  must  have  been  his  wife  in  New  York  and 
not  his  wife  in  Carolina,"  said  Hargrove  in  surprise. 

"  That 's  about  the  situation.  The  same  principle  ap- 
plies to  her  manumission.  It  has  been  held  that  if  a 
man  take  his  slave  to  another  state,  and  set  him  free 
under  its  laws,  and  then  bring  him  back  into  a  state 
that  only  permits  a  slave  to  be  set  free  by  order  of 
court,  it  shows  a  purpose  to  evade  the  law,  and  the 
foreign  manumission  is  void.  In  such  a  case,  it  was 
held  that  the  slave  was  not  free  at  all,  though  the 
former  master  had  always  regarded  and  treated  her  as 
such,  and  in  his  will  made  her  a  specific  bequest,  but 
was  still  his  slave,  and  passed  to  his  heirs  as  a  resi- 
due of  his  estate,  with  respect  to  which  he  had  died  in- 
testate." 

"  So,"  said  Hargrove,  rising  in  excitement,  "  I  under- 
stand you  to  say  that  that  woman  was  George  Eigh- 
mie's  lawful  wedded  wife  in  New  York  '?" 

"  That  is  my  opinion." 


208  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

"And  that  she  was,  at  tl)e  same  time,  lawfully  held 
as  his  slave  in  Carolina  V" 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Bartlemy,  "  you  ought  to  have 
been  a  lawyer.  That  is  as  near  as  I  can  figure  it  out, 
and  I  couldn't  have  stated  it  better  myself." 

"Then,  Mr.  Bartlemy,"  said  Hargrove,  bringing  his 
fist  down  upon  the  table  vehemently,  "  Creorge  Eighmie 
was  right.  There  M^as  never  any  other  land  in  which 
the  master  could  not  make  his  slave  free  at  pleasure,  nor 
one  in  which  marriage,  duly  solemnized,  did  not  make 
free.  George  was  right.  An  institution  that  permits 
and  renders  necessar}'  such  things,  is  not  fit  to  exist  in 
a  Christian  land." 

"Sho!  sho !  You  are  not  going  to  turn  Abolitionist 
just  because  the  institution  of  slaver}^  is  not  perfect,  T 
hope?"  said  Bartlemy,  "Just  think  Avhat  we  should 
have  if  it  were  swept  aAvay. " 

"That  is  where  I  have  alwaA's  stood,"  answered  Har- 
grove. "  It  is  not  long  since  that  I  told  one  of  the  fore- 
most Abolitionists  here  in  this  very  room,  that  I  thought 
it  a  choice  between  negro  slavery  and  negro  libert}',  and 
that  the  latter  was  far  the  more  dangerous." 

"You  were  right,  too,"  said  Bartlemy;  "entirely 
right." 

"  I  was  a  fool!"  said  Hargrove  impetuoush\  "George 
Eighmie  was  right  when  he  told  me,  the  last  time  I  saw 
him,  that  one  such  experience  as  his  outweighed  the  ar- 
gument from  convenience  and  necessity  a  thousandfold. 
A  system  that  permitted  and  compelled  such  horrible 
monstrosities  ought  not  to  live  a  moment." 

"Why,  wh}',  my  dear  sir,"  said  Bartlemy;  "one 
would  think  you  were  really  going  to  come  out  a  howl- 
ing Abolitionist." 

"I  am  going  to  come  out  that  most  earnest  of  all 
the  opponents  of  slavery — a  Southern  Abolitionist !"  re- 
sponded Hargrove.   "From  this  hour,  for  George  Eigh- 


BliAUJa^JI   WATERS.  20J) 

mie's  sake,  I  will  do  all  I  can  not  only  to  secure  the 
rights  of  his  wife  and  children,  but  to  carry  out  his 
wishes  as  to  his  slaves.  Every  one  of  them  shall  be  set 
free  if  it  takes  the  last  dollar  I  have  on  earth  !" 

"But — but — Mr.  Hargrove,  I — I — protest!  As  your 
counsel,  I  protest  against  any  such  rash  course  on  3'our 
part,"  said  Bartlemy.     "I — I^indeed,  sir — " 

"Never  mind  about  it,  Mr.  Bartlemy,"  said  Hargrove 
promptly.  "  I  want  your  aid  to  carry  out  my  purpose  ; 
not  to  instruct  me  what  I  ought  to  do." 

"  But  I  refuse  to  act  as  your  counsel  with  such  an 
object,"  said  the  lawyer  petulantly. 

"You  have  already  become  my  counsel  with  a  tacit 
knowledge  of  the  trust  I  had  to  execute." 

"I  knew  nothing  about  it,  sir  ;  nothing  about  it." 

"Not  in  wox-ds,  perhaps,  until  to-night,  but  by  un- 
avoidable implication  you  well  understood  M^hat  it  was," 
ansAvered  Hargrove.  "  However,  if  you  wish  to  discon- 
tinue your  relation  to  me  as  counsel  you  have  only  to 
present  your  bill." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no!"  said  the  lawyer,  waving  his  hand 
back  and  forth  and  shaking  his  head  deprecatingl}-, 
"  by  no  manner  of  means.  It  wouldn't  do  to  act  hastily 
in  such  a  matter.  Gilman  might  get  an  advantage  if 
we  did.  Of  course,  you  must  follow  your  conscience. 
It's  really  none  of  my  business.  But  I  do  hate  to  see  a 
good  estate  squandered  on  a  lot  of  niggers  that  haven't 
sense  enough  to  appreciate  what  is  done  for  them." 

"Well,  Mr.  Bartlemy,  that  was  George's  aflair,  and 
not  ours,  and  it's  his  estate  we  are  administering  and 
his  money  we  are  spending." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  growled  the  lawyer. 

"Well,  the  rest  of  it  is  mine,"  said  Hargrove  posi- 
tively. 

'•At  least  it  isn't   mine,"  said   the   lawyei-,  "so  we 


210  HOT  PLOWSirARES. 

won't  quarrel  over  it.  Now  tell  me  what  has  become  of 
the  other  child."" 

"The  other  child  ?  Oh,  yes — Marah,"  said  Hargrove 
meditatively'. 

"I  thought  you  said  her  name  was  Heloise,"  said  the 
lawyer  quickly. 

"  Heloise  ?  Yes,  so  I  did.  That  was  her  name,  but  it 
should  have  been  Marah,  for  if  ever  a  life  was  doomed 
to  bitterness  it  was  hers." 

"  She  is  dead,  then  ?" 

"No,"  said  Hargrove,  walking  meditatively  back  and 
forth. 

"  Then  Avhere  is  she  ?" 

"Mr.  Bartlemy,"  said  Merwj'n,  stopping  before  him, 
"my brother  desired  that  his  children  might  never  know 
the  curse  that  a  possible  drop  of  colored  blood  in  their 
veins  might  work  in  their  lives.  I  alone  know  the  se- 
cret of  the  child's  existence.  I  have  already  provided 
that  in  case  of  my  decease  before  everything  is  settled, 
one  other  man  should  l)e  informed  of  it.  That  is  quite 
enough  to  know  what  ia  intended  to  be  a  secret.  Should 
I  live  to  see  the  entire  matter  concluded,  as  I  hope  to  do, 
no  one  will  ever  know  the  truth  as  to  that  child's  birth  or 
be  able  to  trace  her  parentage." 

"Just  as  you  choose,"  said  Bartlemy,  with  something 
of  pique  in  his  tone.  "I  suppose  there  is  nothing  else 
I  need  ask  about  ?" 

With  a  parting  drop  from  the  decanter,  the  lawyer 
bade  his  host  and  client  good  night.  It  was  late  when 
he  arose  the  next  morning.  After  breakfast  Captain 
Hargrove  said  to  him  : 

"  You  will  no  doubt  set  me  down  in  the  same  category 
as  my  brother,  but  I  think  you  told  me  that  Lida  was 
unquestionably  George's  wife  by  the  law  of  Xew  York  V" 

"  Beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt." 

"  She  returned  this  mornins:,  and  will  remain  here  as 


BRACKISH   WATERS.  211 

his  widow  hereafter.  Would  you  like  to  speak  with 
her  ?" 

Upon  Bartlemy's  signifying  liis  assent,  Hargrove  led 
him  to  the  sitting-room,  wliere  a  slight,  dark-eyed 
woman,  who  was  plainly  dressed  in  black,  sat  listening 
to  Hilda's  prattle.  Her  llxce  was  pale  and  thin,  and  a 
nervous  tremulousness  about  the  lips,  as  well  as  a  star- 
tled, hunted  look  in  the  eyes,  showed  how  her  sufferings 
had  wrought  upon  her  life.  After  introducing  the  law- 
yer, Hargrove  took  Hilda  and  left  the  room.  An  hour 
afterward  Bartlemy  came  to  him  and  said  : 

"There  isn't  a  bit  of  doubt  about  it,  Captain.  That 
woman  and  her  children  are  just  what  Gilman  is  afraid 
of.  If  he  had  them  in  Carolina,  they  wouldn't  give  him 
a  minute's  trouble  ;  but  being  here  in  New  York,  he  's 
afraid  of  them.  He  hasn't  any  more  doubt  about  the 
will  than  I,  but  he  's  afraid  that  this  woman,  living  in 
another  state,  might  set  up  her  claim  through  the 
United  States  Courts  ;  and  he  is  in  a  good  deal  of  doubt 
what  the  Supreme  Court  at  Washington  would  do  in 
such  a  case,  and  I  am  not  very  clear  about  it  myself. 
There  's  one  thing  I  want  to  tell  you,  though.  You  have 
long  since  settled  the  estate  of  your  testator.  Your  only 
interest  in  the  state  now  is  as  the  owner  of  the  property 
devised  you  by  George  Eighmie.  Now  you  keep  out  of 
Carolina.  If  they  have  to  sue  you  here,  the  chances  are 
all  in  your  favor ;  if  you  let  them  sue  there,  they  are 
all  the  other  way." 

"But  I  must  atttend  to  the  property,"  said  Hargrove 
dubiously. 

"  By  an  agent,  yes,"  said  the  lawyer  with  a  smile. 

"Very  well,  I  will  remember  your  advice,"  he  as- 
sented. 

"Another  thing,  Captain,"  Bartlemy  began  hesitantly. 

"Yes?"  said  Hargrove  in  a  tone  that  invited  him  to 
proceed. 


212  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

"  It  is  about  those  children." 

"  Well  ?"  responded  Hargrove,  still  expectantly. 

The  other  looked  at  him  doubtfully  a  moment  and 
then  blurted  out : 

"Why  don't  you  tell  that  woman  all  you  know  about 
her  children  ?" 

"I  have." 

"No,  you  have  not." 

"  I  have  told  her  of  my  search  for  the  boj-,  and  that  I 
have  put  the  girl  in  good  safe  hands  where  she  is  well 
cared  for." 

"  But  that  is  not  what  she  wants  to  know.  Why  don't 
you  tell  her  where  she  is  ?" 

"  Because  I  am  carrying  out  my  brother's  instruc- 
tions. He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  put  his  children 
away  from  him,  and  have  them  reared  and  educated 
under  assumed  names.  She  would  perhaps  have  trusted 
him,  or  he  might  have  trusted  her ;  but  he  warned  me 
that  the  children  must  be  put  beyond  her  reach,  or  at 
least  beyond  all  possible  knowledge  of  her  relationship 
to  them." 

"  By  Heaven !  Captain,  I  am  not  much  given  to  senti- 
ment, but  that  is  hard.  Can  you  be  cruel  enough  to 
carry  it  out?" 

"I  must.  I  have  been  tempted  a  thousand  times  to 
give  it  up,  but  thus  far  I  have  stood  firm." 

"  Do  you  know  she  suspects  you  of  having  sold  the 
boy?" 

"No  doubt,"  said  Hargrove  sadly.  "There is  no  end 
to  her  M'ild  fancies  so  far  as  the  children  are  concerned. 
Her  love  for  them  makes  her  life  a  constant  torture.  I 
am  the  only  one  who  has  befriended  her  since  George's 
death,  but  I  think  she  has  lost  the  power  to  trust 
even  me.  I  discharged  all  my  servants  except  Jason 
when  I  brought  her  here,  so  that  there  might  not  be  the 
least  suspicion  of  the  facts,  yet  she  tied  as  soon  as  my 


BRACKISH  WATERS.  213 

overseer  set  foot  in  the  house,  thinkhig  I  was  preparing 
to  abduct  her.  She  is  a  weak,  silly  woman,  whom  I 
cannot  trust  with  a  knowledge  of  my  purposes  lest  she 
should  unintentionally  betray  them." 

"I  see,  I  see,"  said  the  lawyer,  "but  how  you  can  re- 
sist her  piteous  appeals  and  those  great  eyes  with  the 
tears  running  over  the  lids  down  on  that  sad  face,  passes 
my  comprehension.  I  'm  pretty  tough,  but  I  swear  I 
couldn't  stand  that." 

"You  can  guess  what  I  have  suffered  then,"  said 
Hargrove,  ruefully.  "  It  has  been  a  terrible  task,  but  I 
pledged  my  honor  to  do  it,  and  no  one  shall  ever  say  I 
failed  through  weakness  or  lack  of  diligence." 

"Do  you  know  that  she  thinks  Hilda  her  daughter  ?" 
asked  the  lawyer,  with  a  keen  look. 

"She  has  hinted  such  a  suspicion,"  answered  Har- 
grove, Avith  a  smile. 

"  And  what  was  your  reply  ?" 

"  That  she  might  think  what  she  chose,  so  long  as  she 
did  not  breathe  a  word  of  her  suspicion  to  the  child." 

''And  if  she  did?" 

"  That  she  should  never  see  her  face  again." 

"  You  think  you  would  know  it  ?" 

"  Hilda  could  not  hide  it  from  me  for  a  moment." 

"So  you  hope —  ?" 

"  To  keep  Lida  quiet  and  prevent  her  life  from  being 
entirely  miserable." 

"It 's  a  great  risk — a  great  risk,  Captain,  and  for  very 
little  good,  so  far  as  I  can  see.  What  is  the  use  of  all 
this  secresy  ?" 

"Simply  to  fulfill  a  brother's  request.  If  you  had 
heard  him  implore  me  to  save  his  children  from  the 
curse  which  the  knowledge  of  one  drop  of  colored  blood 
entails,  you  would  not  wonder  at  what  I  have  done. 
Only  think,  sir,  suppose  your  child— rsuppose  my  little 
Hilda  should  come  to  believe  that  the  blood  of  that  un- 


214  HOT  rLOWSHARES. 

fortunate  race  flowed  in  her  veins — that  she  was  branded 
with  the  mark  of  degradation  and  shame  —  what  evil 
would  not  be  counted  light  in  comparison  with  it  ?  She 
would  pray  for  death,  sir,  and  I  would  rather  see  her 
dead  than  know  her  thus  accursed." 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  old  lawyer,  shaking  his  head. 
"Perhaps  you  are  right;  but  I  am  glad  it  is  you  and 
not  I  that  have  this  thing  to  do." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

WHAT  WAKED   THE   WORLD. 

TialE  fled.  The  world  moved  faster  than  ever  be- 
fore. The  telegraph  Avas  beginuing  to  unify  thought. 
Like  a  giant  centipede,  it  crept  over  the  land.  It  mur- 
dered sloth  and  ran  ahead  of  time.  It  stole  the  mer- 
chant's secret  and  sold  it  to  a  rival  a  thousand  leagues 
away.  It  made  principal  and  agent  one.  It  fed  brain 
with  fact  and  gave  to  mind  the  ubiquity  of  the  Infinite. 
It  made  every  man  an  Adam  and  marshaled  the  world's 
life  before  him. 

The  curtain  of  darkness  was  rent  in  twain,  and  beyond 
the  Mississippi  a  boundless  empire  was  revealed.  The 
Golden  Gates  were  uplifted,  and  the  traditions  of  the 
Orient  were  beggared  by  the  facts  of  the  Occident.  For 
two  hundred  years  the  world  had  hungered  for  gold  and 
found  no  new  supply.  The  temples  and  palaces  of  India 
had  been  ravaged  by  ruthless  hands  to  satisfy  the  greed 
of  civilization.  The  jewels  of  her  gods  shone  in  the 
royal  crowns  of  Europe.  Brave  men  wore  with  pride 
the  gems  that  valor  had  won  from  heathen  hands. 
The  wives,  the  sweethearts  and  the  covirtesans  of  Christ- 
endom flaunted  upon  snowy  arms  and  billowy  bosoms 
the  pillage  of  the  unbeliever. 

But,  alas !  the  supply  was  almost  exhausted.  The 
lands  that  Cortez  and  Pizarro  ravaged,  stripped  of  the 
wealth  the  Aztecs  and  the  Incas  had  amassed  in  the 
unknown  centuries  before  the  robber's  torch  shed  light 
upon  their  stores,  lay  barren  and  unheeded  under  the 
315 


216  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

torrid  sunshine.  When  the  chance  for  plunder  passed 
away  the  Hght  of  civiUzation  fled.  Mexico,  Potosi 
and  Coquimbo  gave  a  steadily  decreasing  output.  All 
the  rest  of  the  world  was  guessed  at  a  beggarly  ten 
millions  yearly  of  actual  gain  of  the  world's  lucre.  When 
Begums  and  Kajahs  became  pensioners  rather  than  vic- 
tims of  legalized  plunder — when  the  East  called  for  aid, 
instead  of  offering  an  unlimited  chance  for  looting — 
then  the  romance  of  India  was  gone,  and  it  became 
only  a  refuge  for  parsimony  and  thrift,  which  were  con- 
tent to  endure  exile,  discomfort  and  long  delay  for 
moderate  gain. 

The  w^all  that  encircled  China  had  been  broken  down, 
but  only  the  paltriest  tribute  could  be  wrung  from  a 
people  whose  economies  stupefied  even  the  thriftiest  of 
Europeans,  and  demanded  for  their  expression  a  coin  a 
hundred  times  less  in  value  than  the  meanest  that  ever 
boasted  a  queen's  face. 

The  world  was  base  and  man  was  greedy.  For  a 
hundred  years  the  supply  of  the  precious  metals  had 
steadily  diminished.  Commerce  had  increased  mean- 
while a  thousandfold.  The  accepted  basis  of  exchange 
had  grown  less  and  less  sufficient  for  the  world's  need. 
Already  the  human  mind  was  busy  devising  substi- 
tutes. Production  was  limited,  not  by  demand  or  by 
capacity  for  supply,  but  by  the  difficulty  of  transport 
and  the  paucity  of  an  indestructible  measure  of  value. 
"Gold!  Gold!  Gold!"  was  the  hopeless  cry  of  all  the 
Avorld.  It  was  generally  believed  that  the  earth  was 
virtually  exhausted  of  precious  minerals,  and  no  one 
supposed  that  the  supply  would  ever  be  materially  .en- 
hanced. 

The  width  of  a  continent  transformed  boundless  wealth 
into  pitiable  poverty.  AVhere  nothing  was  expected, 
infinite  possibility  uprose.  Fifteen  years  before  a  Con- 
gressional report  had  said:  "No  man  will,  after  a  mo- 


WJIAl'  WAKED   THE   WORLD.  217 

ment's  reflectiou,  suppose  that  the  country  beyond  the 
sandy  prairies  in  the  West  and  North  can  ever  become 
members  of  this  Union.  They  are  scarcely  less  distant 
than  the  coast  of  Africa,  and  are  separated  from  us  by  a 
breadth  of  continent  requiring  more  time  and  expense  to 
traverse  than  the  ocean  itself"  A  noted  politician,  who 
yet  lives  to  laugh  at  his  own  folly,  said,  in  a  public  speech 
upon  the  acquisition  of  California,  holding  a  well-worn 
pencil  up  before  his  auditors,  "I  would  not  give  that 
pencil-stub  for  all  the  gold  that  will  ever  be  found  there  ;" 
and  his  hearers  applauded  his  wisdom. 

No  wonder  the  world  woke  with  amazement  from  such 
dreams  and  ran  wild  when  golden  plains  and  silver 
mountains  outspread  themselves  before  its  famished 
eyes.  All  Christendom  felt  the  throb  of  an  insatiable 
greed.  The  lust  of  sudden  wealth  thrilled  peer  and 
pauper.  The  desert  that  lay  between  was  robbed  of  fear. 
The  tropic  sun  blazed  down  in  vain  upon  the  reckless  w^ay- 
farers.  The  glint  of  gold  outshone  the  stars.  Distance 
could  not  dim  it.  Difficulty  could  not  quench  desire.  A 
grain  of  yellow  dust  inflamed  a  hundred  hearts.  A  smgle 
nugget  fired  a  thousand  souls  to  new  exertion.  Men 
who  would  have  died  clods  lived  to  be  envied  of  princes 
through  the  lust  born  of  a  gold-streaked  lump  of  snowy 
quartz  shown  in  a  shop  window.  Thousands  failed. 
Thousands  died.  The  highways  to  the  land  of  promise 
became  endless  charnels.  Dead  men's  bones  pointed 
the  w^ay  to  those  who  came  after.  The  sharks  of  the 
southern  seas  grew  fat  on  frequent  corpses ;  yet  over 
the  dead  all  the  more  greedily  pressed  the  living.  For 
every  one  that  fell  there  were  a- thousand  that  sprang 
up.  For  every  one  that  went  there  were  ten  thousand 
tliat  sought  to  go.  For  every  one  that  came  back  laden 
there  were  a  million  who  dreamed  that  they  might  some 
time  know  a  like  good  fortune,  and,  because  of  this 
dream,  wrought    more    earnestly,   saved   more   persist- 


318  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

eiitly,  and  so  achieved  more  richly  than  they  other- 
wise would  have  done.  Thus  Science  and  Greed  stirred 
the  Avorld  into  new  life. 

Wlierever  trade  went  the  fever  flew.  Gold  flowed 
througli  the  world  like  water,  in  comparison  with  the 
dearth  that  had  been.  Half  a  decade  yielded  more  than 
half  a  century  had  given  before.  "Dust"  and  "nug- 
gets "  grew  familiar  to  all  eyes.  The  slang  of  the 
mining  camp  ci-ept  into  the  world's  speech.  Palms  that 
liad  only  known  shillings  were  gladdened  with  crowns. 
The  child  leaped  from  his  cradle  to  join  in  the  struggle 
for  gold.  The  peasant's  heart  grew  big  and  his  arm 
waxed  strong  as  he  saw  a  possibility  that  he  might  yet 
be  richer  than  his  king.  Mammon  gave  his  right  hand 
to  Democracy.  The  yellow,  molten  torrent  undermined 
the  throne  and  made  the  crown  look  dim.  The  high- 
Avays  of  empire  were  opened  to  the  humblest  feet.  The 
doors  of  kings'  palaces  were  unbarred,  and  unwashed 
feet  poured  through  the  sanctuaries  of  power.  Wooden 
shoes  gave  place  to  golden  sandals.  Miracles  were  mul- 
tiplied. Where  one  liad  risen  a  step  before,  a  thousand 
were  to  reach  the  top  thereafter.  Rank  Avas  cheapened  ; 
manhood  magnified.  Those  above  Avere  not  dragged 
doAvn,  but  those  beloAv  Avere  forced  upAvard.  The  world 
Avas  started  on  a  race  which  grew  more  fierce  and  head- 
long as  the  years  went  by.  The  past  was  SAvept  aAvay 
as  Avith  a  burning  besom.  The  future  bloomed  Avith 
hope.     A  flood-tide  marked  the  century's  zenith. 

In  that  same  hour  Freedom  and  Slavery  cast  their 
eyes  upon  the  neAv  domain.  Both  Avere  inspired  by 
greed.  The  free  North  demanded  that  at  least  a  part 
of  the  fertile  plains,  the  golden  sands  and  the  silver- 
veined  heights  should  be  held  as  an  arena  wherein  every 
man  might  struggle  Avith  his  felloAv  for  the  prizes  of  life 
Avithout  let  or  hindrance  from  another's  Avill.  The 
South  demanded  that  the  institution  most  favored  by  the 


WHAT  WAKED   THE  WORLD.  219 

Constitution,  and  especially  nourished  and  protected  by 
the  laws  of  the  states  in  which  it  had  taken  root,  should 
also  be  protected  in  the  territories  of  the  United  States 
not  yet  organized  under  municipal  forms  or  erected  into 
self-governing  states.  They  claimed  that  the  government 
which  allowed  the  citizen  to  hold  a  certain  species  of  pro- 
perty under  the  laws  of  certain  states  of  the  Union,  was 
bound  to  protect  him  in  the  enjoyment  of  that  property 
upon  its  unassigned  domain,  of  which  he  and  his  fellow 
slave-owners  were  joint  proprietors  in  common  with  the 
non-slaveholding  citizens  of  the  Northern  States. 

It  is  not  enough  to  say  that  this  claim  was  a  specious 
one.  Not  only  has  it  never  been  fairly  answered,  but  it 
is  not  susceptible  of  logical  refutation  if  its  premises  are 
granted.  The  argument  against  the  right  of  slavery  to 
exist,  to  be  defended  and  to  extend  itself,  was  always  in- 
complete and  unsatisfactory  when  it  was  based  upon  the 
written  Avord  of  the  Constitution.  To  hold  that  instru- 
ment sacred  above  all  things  else  and  yet  deny  the  slave- 
owner's legal  right  to  his  human  chattel  was  impossible. 
Many  a  lover  of  liberty  and  righteousness  tried  to  do  it 
and  failed.  To  doubt  the  one  was  sacrilegious.  To  ad- 
mit the  other  seemed  little  less  than  sin.  The  Consti- 
tution was  admittedly  inspired.  To  question  that  was 
treason.  A  curse  too  fearful  to  be  uttered  rested  upon 
any  one  who  should  query  its  lightest  word.  All  that 
it  contained  was  not  only  just  and  true,  but  there  was 
nothing  of  governmental  justice  and  truth  that  it  did  not 
contain,  if  not  in  the  full  ear  of  explicit  declaration  at 
least  in  the  fecund  germ  of  necessary  implication.  Tried 
by  the  declaration  on  which  it  rested,  there  could  be  no 
slave  beneath  its  segis.  But  the  "person  held  to  service 
or  labor  in  one  state,  under  the  laws  thereof,  escaping 
into  another,"  could  be  nothing  but  the  slave  fleeing 
from  bondage  toward  the  hope  of  freedom.  Men  gravely 
argued  that  this  might  mean  apprentices.     The  quibble 


220  HOT  PLOWtiUAUES. 

was  never  worthy  even  of  the  contempt  poured  upon  it, 
though  it  found  favor  with  minds  that  nothing  but  the 
desperation  of  dilemma  could  have  induced  to  harbor  it. 
In  very  truth  the  argument  was  all  with  the  slave- 
holder when  it  was  once  admitted  that  the  Constitution 
was  infallible.  Standing  upon  the  "person  held  to  ser- 
vice or  labor"  clause,  slavery  was  impregnable.  Eight 
or  wrong,  the  Constitution  covered  it  by  unavoidable  im- 
plication. Grounded  upon  that,  who  should  assail  it  ? 
Had  not  the  blood  of  the  fathers  sanctified  its  provi- 
sions ?  Did  not  Washington  commend  it  to  our  jealous 
care  ?  Had  not  every  patriot  whose  memory  we  cher- 
ished regarded  it  as  the  talisman  of  our  liberty — the  sa- 
cred scroll  on  which  our  destiny  depended  ? 

But  for  this  single  clause  in  the  Constitution,  slavery 
would  have  Avithered  before  the  glare  of  conscience  long 
before  even  the  time  of  which  we  write.  The  bulwark 
of  the  Constitution  was  its  moral  as  well  as  its  legal 
cover  from  assault.  A  thousand  quirks  and  quibbles 
were  devised  to  avoid  the  potency  of  this  claim  which 
had  the  merit,  unusual* among  political  dogmas,  of  never 
being  tinctured  with  doubt  in  the  minds  of  those  who 
put  it  forward.  As  to  his  moral  right  to  buy  and  sell 
and  hold  human  beings  as  slaves,  the  Southern  man 
might  doubt— many  of  them  did.  As  to  his  legal  right 
there  was  never  any  question.  The  Northern  mind 
conceived  innumerable  pleas  against  it,  chiefly  based 
upon  a  specious  use  of  the  word  "man,"  meaning  in  one 
part  of  the  argument  a  slave  and  in  another  premise  a 
free  man.  The  impetuous  logic  of  the  South  was  right 
when  it  termed  them  all  makeshifts  and  evasions.  If  the 
Constitution  meant  anything  it  guaranteed  in  the  most 
emphatic  manner  not  only  the  right  to  hold  slaves,  but 
to  hunt  them.  If  it  gave  that  privilege  in  one  state  it 
was  a  right  of  property,  which  the  citizen  was  entitled 
to  carry  with  him  and  exercise  in  the  national  domain. 


WHAT  WAKED   THE  WORLD.  221 

This  was  not  contemplated  by  the  framers  of  that  instru- 
ment, because  they  were  affected  by  human  conditions 
and  could  not  foresee  the  future.  It  followed,  however,  as 
certainly  and  indefeasibly  as  the  right  of  the  merchant 
to  offer  his  wares,  of  the  tradesman  to  exercise  his  call- 
ing, or  of  the  farmer  to  till  the  soil — admitting  always 
that  the  Constitution  is  the  complete  compendium  of 
political  truth.  These  quibbles  served  only  as  excuses 
for  feeble  brains  and  timid  consciences.  There  were 
those  who  did  not  stop  to  speculate  on  the  absurdity  of 
picketing  state-lines  against  runaway  apprentices,  or  who 
easily  overlooked  the  fact  that  Benjamin  Franklin,  him- 
self an  absconding  apprentice,  signed  the  instrument. 
There  were  others  who,  halting  between  their  reverence 
for  the  sacred  charter  and  the  dictates  of  conscience, 
needed  only  a  formal  quibble  to  satisfy  them  that  their 
convictions  of  right  did  not  contravene  the  letter  or  the 
spirit  of  the  Constitution.  From  first  to  last  the  Con- 
stitution was  the  Gibraltar  of  slavery,  and  the  reverence 
felt  for  that  instrument  was  the  last  stronghold,  which 
its  opponents  were  never  able  to  storm  until  its  advo- 
cates had  thrown  down  its  walls  upon  themselves. 

Their  fii'st  step  in  this  direction  was  when  they 
sought  to  make  of  this  shield  of  the  "peculiar  institu- 
tion," as  it  was  called,  a  weapon  of  offense  against 
their  aggressive  and  persistent  enemies.  For  nearly 
sixty  years  there  had  been  a  law  upon  the  statute-book 
regulating  the  recaption  of  slaves  and  their  return  to 
captivity.  Stung,  however,  by  the  defeat  which  their 
candidate  had  received  through  the  power  of  the  Anti- 
slavery  idea,  the  Southern  leaders  determined  to  stamp 
out  this  political  heresy  for  all  time,  by  the  assertion, 
in  the  most  irritating  and  offensive  manner  that  could 
be  devised,  of  the  constitutional  principle  on  which 
they  rested.  The  theory  on  which  was  based  what  is 
known  as  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law,  was  that  it  was  sound 


222  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

policy  to  demonstrate  so  clearly  that  none  could  evade 
or  deny  it,  the  constitutional  sanction  on  which  slavery 
rested  secure.  For  this  purpose  not  only  were  the  rights 
of  caption  and  removal  reasserted,  but  it  was  made  the 
duty  of  every  citizen,  under  an  express  penalty,  to  aid 
in  such  removal.  It  was  this  pinning  upon  every 
man's  conscience  a  constitutional  duty  which  was  in- 
tended to  destroy  all  opposition  to  slavery,  that  ulti- 
mately wrought  its  overthrow.  The  right  to  retake  ex- 
isted ;  the  power  to  summon  a  posse  comitatus  no  doubt 
resided  in  the  officer  of  the  court,  and  the  duty  to  obey 
rested  on  all  good  citizens  before  this  statute  was  en- 
acted. But  the  old  law  had  become  almost  a  dead  letter. 
Its  machinery  was  imperfect,  since  at  that  time  (1793) 
there  was  no  tangible  hostility  to  slavery.  It  was 
merely  a  machine  for  carrying  out  an  unresisted  and 
unquestioned  provision  of  the  Constitution  at  the  best. 
The  reassertion  and  elaboration  of  these  features,  how- 
ever, coupled  with  some  others  of  peculiar  offensiveness, 
stirred  the  heart  of  the  Xorth  as  if  shackles  had  been 
put  on  the  hands  of  its  first-born.  For  a  time,  the 
supporters  of  the  Anti-slavery  movement  were  over- 
whelmed with  discouragement.  Many  who  had  begun 
to  pay  court  to  its  adherents,  and  for  political  advan- 
tage sought  to  be  numbered  with  them,  fell  away.  Some 
who  had  stood  in  the  forefront  of  public  regard  thought 
they  saw  in  this  the  end  of  a  disturbing  conflict,  and  for 
personal  advantage  favored  it  covertly  or  openly.  Of 
these,  some  were  amazed  when  the  earth  opened  and 
swallowed  them  up,  and  others  made  haste  to  recant 
when  they  saw  the  tenor  of  public  feeling.  Instead  of 
being  weakened,  the  Anti-slavery  cause  was  strength- 
ened a  thousandfold.  Many  gave  up  to  the  stupefac- 
tion of  despair,  but  many  more  had  their  moral  re- 
sponsibility for  slaverj'  and  its  fruits  brought  home  to 
their  own  doors  so  that  they  could  not  evade  it  longer. 


WHAT  WAKED   THE  WORLD.  223 

Every  enforcement  of  this  law,  which  was  eagerly  seized 
upon  by  slave-owners,  not  only  as  a  means  for  enabling 
them  to  recover  valuable  property  but  also  of  teaching 
the  people  of  the  North  the  strength  of  their  position, 
only  added  fuel  to  the  flame  of  hostility  against  its  pro- 
visions and  awakened  a  stronger  doubt  as  to  the  infal- 
libility of  the  Constitution  on  which  it  rested. 

Parties  were  eaten  to  the  core  with  discontent.  This 
law  was  the  solvent  which  released  "Whig  and  Demo- 
crat alike  from  the  bonds  of  party  fealty.  Webster 
.was  buried  in  shame — relegated  to  that  death  in  life 
which  is  of  all  things  most  horrible  to  a  man  who  has 
helped  to  move  the  world — pitied  and  despised  at  length 
by  those  whose  admiration  for  his  genius  had  made 
them  blind  to  his  faults.  Sumner  was  uplifted  in  glory 
from  his  bed  of  martydom  to  mark  with  the  utmost  em- 
phasis the  disapproval  of  the  great  leader's  cowardice, 
and  the  emphatic  indorsement  that  Massachusetts  would 
give  to  the  heroism  of  her  youngest  representative. 

"What  had  been  before  a  mere  vague  generality  now 
assumed  a  personal  and  individual  aspect.  Men  of  con- 
science rebelled  against  what  they  before  had  only 
dimly  regarded  as  evil,  now  first  plainly  realizing  its 
true  nature  and  their  unavoidable  responsibility  for  its 
existence.  Men  of  spirit  arrayed  themselves  against  the 
law  because  of  its  offensively  dictatorial  character.  It 
enhanced  the  horrors  of  slavery  by  cutting  off  even  the 
little  chance  there  was  before  of  escape,  and  thus  con- 
firmed the  Anti-slavery  sentiment  of  those  who  were 
feebly  halting  on  the  absurd  plea  that  slavery  would  soon 
die  from  natural  causes ;  although  it  increased  in  num- 
bers twice  as  fast  as  the  ratio  of  increase  in  the  surround- 
ing populations.  These  were  now  convinced  that  only 
positive  measures  would  ever  cure  what  thej'  deemed  a 
wrong  against  humanity.  Many  worthy  men,  who  had 
never  violated  the  law  before,  counted  themselves  honored 


224  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

forever  when  permitted  to  aid  in  the  escape  of  a  fu- 
gitive. 

A  thrill  of  angry  apprehension  passed  through  the 
whole  Xorth.  People  knew  that  a  great  crisis  was  at 
hand,  but  none  could  trace  its  outcome.  A  few 
were  confident  that  liberty  would  triumph.  Others 
counted  slaver}^  the  victor,  and  yet  sullenly  resisted  ; 
wiiile  still  others  thought  the  whole  matter  ended,  and 
looked  for  the  old  parties  to  muster  their  hosts  again  on 
the  old  familiar  grounds  that  had  been  fought  over 
quadrennially  for  threescore  years  or  so — the  means  of 
raising  revenue,  the  appropriation  of  the  public  domain, 
and  other  questions  of  method  in  administration  onl3^ 

Instead  of  this  chaos  ensued.  Before  the  sentiment 
produced  by  this  measure  had  time  to  crystallize  into 
organic  form  a  Presidential  election  came.  Party  bonds 
were  dissolved.  The  Democracy,  by  reason  of  its 
close  alliance  in  doctrine  with  the  pro-slavery  faction, 
suffered  less  than  the  opponent  at  whose  hands  it 
had  suffered  defeat  four  years  previously.  Yet  it  had 
many  defections,  and,  in  almost  every  state,  those  who 
left  its  ranks  were  men  of  remarkable  strength  and 
character.  It  is  easy  enough  for  even  a  weak  man  to 
be  left  by  his  party,  but  it  takes  a  strong  man  to  be 
able  to  break  away  from  life-long  associations  on  a  ques- 
tion of  principle  that  does  not  even  promise  success. 

The  Whig  party  crumbled  like  shattered  clay.  Claim- 
ing libei-al  principles  and  covertly  seeking  the  aid  of  the 
Abolitionists,  whom  they  sought  to  hold  to  their  support 
upon  the  plea  that  only  through  their  success  was  there 
any  hope  of  ultimate  triumph,  the  leaders  had  shown 
themselves  utterly  unable  to  read  the  temper  of  the 
times  and,  as  a  rule,  too  cowardly  to  defend  the  views 
they  secretly  professed  to  favor.  To  avoid  giving  offense 
to  the  South,  they  trifled  with  the  convictions  of  the 
better  element  of  their  party  at  the  North,  and  found 


WHAT  WAKED   THE  WORLD.  22r, 

at  length  that  its  intelHgence,  conscience  and  courage 
liad  renounced  allegiance  to  a  party  of  cowardice  and 
hypocris}'. 

But  as  yet  it  did  not  appear  what  would  be  the  result. 
The  doom  of  the  Whig  party  was  sealed.  Insurrection 
against  the  folly  and  recreancy  of  its  leaders  had  made 
any  further  success  under  its  banners  impossible.  Its 
two  greatest  names  had  been  smitten  with  the  madness 
that  destroys.  Drunk  with  envy  of  each  other,  mad 
with  the  lust  of  power  and  filled  with  disappointed 
ambition,  they  had  forgotten  all  but  themselves.  For 
thirty  years  they  had  been  the  rival  leaders  of  their 
party.  The  voice  of  adulation  had  become  as  the  breath 
of  life  in  their  nostrils.  They  had  forgotten  that  the 
worship  of  admiring  followers  was  a  poor  test  of  truth. 
They  had  so  long  been  hailed  as  gods  that,  like  drunken 
Alexander,  they  had  come  to  believe  in  their  own 
divinity.  The  party  whom  they  once  served  had,  in 
their  minds,  degenerated  into  a  mere  personal  following. 
Its  declaration  of  principles  was  to  them  only  a  formu- 
lation of  the  ideas  of  wliich  they  were  the  incarnation. 
They  no  longer  remembered  that  they  had  grown  to 
greatness  by  faithfully  serving  those  whom  they  repre- 
sented. They  both  ignored  the  fact  that  it  was  not 
Clay  nor  Webster  that  the  people  had  followed,  but 
the  ideas  that  each  had  wrought  into  the  fibre  of  his 
life.  They  made  the  mistake,  fatal  to  party  leaders  in  a 
republic,  of  first  placing  the  party  above  the  nation  and 
then  themselves  above  the  party.  The  people,  through 
whose  choice  they  had  been  called  to  the  foremost  places 
in  the  councils  both  of  party  and  nation,  had  shrunk  to 
nothingness  in  their  eyes,  which  beheld  only  the  great- 
ness at  which  they  had  themselves  arrived. 

A  considerable  number  of  the  Whig  leaders  who  stood 
next  to  the  highest  in  rank  were  among  the  malcontents. 
Some  of  them  for  many  years  had  held  their  allegiance 


226  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

but  lightly.  Others  had  marked  the  tendency  of  public 
sentiment,  and  not  only  put  themselves  in  harmony  with 
it,  but  while  yet  recognized  as  Whigs,  had  become  really 
the  leaders  of  a  movement  which  could  no  longer  be  re- 
conciled with  the  policy  of  the  old  party  as  dictated  by 
its  acknowledged  chiefs.  Then,  as  in  all  such  crises, 
the  claim  was  strenuously  made  that  this  was  not  a 
party  question.  However  vital  it  might  become  in  the 
opinion  of  the  voter,  it  was  urged  that  it  was  not,  could 
not  properly,  and  never  must  be  allowed  to  become  a 
party  question.  It  was  a  moral  question,  a  social  ques- 
tion, a  religious  problem ;  but  a  political  question — an 
idea  upon  which  parties  should  divide — it  could  not  be. 
It  lacked  all  the  features  of  the  regular  stock-in-trade 
pohtical  issue.  There  was  no  element  of  taxation  or  ad- 
ministration in  it.  Its  decision  did  not  involve  any 
change  of  governmental  form,  internal  economy,  or 
foreign  relation.  It  was  merely  a  great^moral  idea,  affect- 
ing directly  the  people  of  those  states  in  which  slavery 
existed,  and  only  by  the  remotest  indirection  those  who 
gave  it  aid  and  comfort  through  the  ' '  held  to  service 
or  labor"  clause  of  the  Constitution.  However  wrong- 
ful it  might  be,  parties  could  not  legally  interfere  \vith 
it.  Whigs  might  bewail  its  unrighteousness ;  Demo- 
crats might  mourn  its  iniquities  ;  all  alike  must  regret 
its  abuses  ;  but  nothing  more  could  be  done.  Moral  in- 
fluences might  be  exerted.  Perhaps,  indirectly,  legisla- 
tion might  do  something  to  prevent  its  spread  and 
growth ;  but  beyond  this  no  political  party  would  ever 
dare  to  go.  Beyond  this  line  was  only  a  violated  Con- 
stitution, a  broken  pledge,  a  divided  people.  What 
politician  scheming  for  place  and  preferment  could 
dream  that  a  people's  conscience  would  ever  drive  them 
so  far  ?  Who  would  imagine  that  the  pangs  of  remorse 
for  an  evil  done  by  the  fathers,  would  ever  induce  the 
children  to  violate  a  compact  solemnly  made  binding 


WJLVr  WAKED   THE  WORLD.  227 

upon  them  and  the  heirs  of  their  honor  and  glory  for- 
ever, simply  from  a  deeply-rooted  conviction  that  such 
agreement  was  unjust,  unholy,  oppressive  and  therefore 
void? 

Already  Seward  and  Wade  and  Giddings  and  Chase, 
and  a  hundred  others  of  the  coming  men  of  both  great 
parties,  had  declared  this  issue  to  be  paramount,  and 
their  constituencies  had  not  only  approved  their  course, 
but  unmistakably  indicated  a  willingness  to  follow  them 
beyond  party  lines.  Very  few  of  them  had,  however, 
ostensibly  severed  their  relations  with  existing  parties. 
The  people  clamored  for  leaders,  for  organization, 
for  progress.  The  politicians  paltered  and  schemed ; 
sought  for  substitutes  and  preferred  excuses.  Parties 
sprang  up  like  mushrooms.  A  thousand  visionary 
projects  were  broached.  Secret  political  organizations 
that  grew  up  among  the  people,  none  knew  how, 
confounded  the  estimates  of  the  demagogue.  The  pro- 
fessional politician  was  at  sea  in  all  his  calculations. 
No  man  knew  how  his  neighbor  stood  on  any  political 
question.  Blind  leaders  thought  they  led  blind  fol- 
lowers, but  found  themselves  deserted  at  the  last  mo- 
ment. Chaos  reigned  in  politics.  Each  one  was  seeking 
for  a  new  and  sure  way  out  of  the  labyrinth.  The  recre- 
ancy of  some  of  the  old  leaders  produced  suspicion  of 
almost  all. 

The  blame  which  attached  to  the  Whig  chiefs  ex- 
tended also  to  the  recognized  leaders  of  what  had  been 
known  as  the  Liberty,  or  Free-Soil  party.  The  nomi- 
nation of  Mr.  Van  Buren,  though  it  resulted  in  an 
immense  increase  of  the  vote  previously  polled  by  that 
party,  was  by  no  means  regarded  with  approval  by 
its  rank  and  file.  They  were  earnest  men,  who  had 
been  tried  as  by  fire,  and  they  had  no  faith  in  the  sin- 
cerity of  the  candidate's  weakly-worded  professions. 
They  regarded   it  very  generally  as  a  matter  of  bar- 


228  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

gain  and  sale  between  the  leading  members  of  the 
Free-Soil  Convention  and  Mr.  Van  Buren,  by  which,  in 
consideration  of  their  lending  the  party  name  and 
strength  to  aid  his  plan  of  personal  revenge,  he  formally 
consented  to  carry  out  their  principles  in  the  unex- 
pected contingency  of  his  election.  It  was  freely  charged 
that  the  leaders  of  the  Free-Soil  party  had  made  this 
bargain  with  a  defeated  Democratic  aspirant  in  the  in- 
terest of  the  Whigs.  The  result  of  the  election  and  the 
immediate  abandonment  of  the  party  and  its  tenets  by 
Mr.  Van  Buren,  as  soon  as  it  had  served  his  individual 
purpose,  gave  color  to  this  charge.  'By  reason  of  this, 
the  Free-Soil  party  was  tainted  even  in  the  hour  of  its 
apparent  success  with  the  seemingly  well-grounded  sus- 
picion that  it  was  a  party  not  of  principles,  but  designed 
only  for  the  sale  and  delivery  of  votes  in  the  interest  of 
certain  leaders.  To  the  men  who  composed  this  party 
no  charge  could  be  more  galling.  They  despised  chi- 
canery. Not  one  in  a  hundred  of  them  believed  at  all  in 
political  management,  as  it  is  called.  They  were  brave, 
honest  men,  who  feared  God,  loved  liberty  and  hated 
wrong.  To  ally  themselves  in  any  way  with  the  great 
parties  who  had  paltered,  lied  and  finally  betrayed 
the  great  principle  which  overshadowed  all  others, 
was,  in  their  view,  the  blackest  treason.  The  party 
had  thitherto  been  distinguished  from  all  others  in 
that  it  did  not  seek  for  power,  was  wedded  to  the  for- 
tunes of  no  man  or  set  of  men,  but  was  simply  a  stand- 
ing protest  against  a  national  evil.  Those  who  had 
been  prominent  in  its  councils  were  the  martyrs  of 
its  cause.  Steadfastness  in  the  midst  of  persecution, 
hope  in  the  midst  of  discouragement,  and  a  willingness 
to  serve  "withoutfiivor,  reward  or  the  hope  of  reward," 
had  been  the  qualifications  of  its  standard-bearers. 

For  the  first  time,  in  1848,  these  simple,  earnest,  sin- 
gle-hearted men  were  subjected  to  the  artful  Aviles  of 


WHAT  WAK/W   THE  WORLD.  220 

ambitious,  self-seeking,  political  tricksters,  with  the 
president  of  the  convention  at  their  head.  The  brilliant 
scheme,  like  many  another  which  he  lived  to  evolve  for 
his  own  elevation  to  the  Presidency,  while  promising 
well  for  immediate  success  resulted  in  ultimate  disaster, 
by  producing  almost  universal  distrust  of  those  who  were 
regarded  as  the  promoters  of  this  act  of  barter  and  sale. 
The  schemer  had  secured  for  himself  the  Senatorship 
at  which  he  was  then  aiming,  and  to  obtain  it  had  re- 
newed again  his  allegiance  to  the  Democracy.  He  had, 
indeed,  opposed  the  measure  which  had  now  become  of 
paramount  interest  to  the  advocates  of  personal  liberty 
for  the  slave,  but  he  Avas  still  regarded  by  the  mass  of 
the  Democratic  party  with  insuperable  distrust.  The 
suspicion  which  attached  to  him  extended  to  many  of 
his  former  associates  of  the  Free-Soil  party,  and  even 
to  the  name  which  had  been  adopted  by  them.  It  is 
rare  that  such  swift  and  universal  execration  follows 
on  the  breach  of  an  implied  trust.  If  all  that  was  done 
then  had  been  bona  fide.,  the  party,  in  1852,  would  have 
been  tenfold  as  strong  as  was  indicated  by  the  con- 
vention which  met  at  Pittsburg,  and,  under  the  name  of 
the  "Free  Democrac}',"  sought  to  rally  its  scattered 
voters  back  to  the  support  of  "  equal  liberty  for  all  men" 
as  the  cardinal  principle  of  political  life.  Its  votes  on 
the  day  of  election  were  only  one-half  as  many  as  four 
years  previous,  but  its  power  was  many  times  greater. 
It  had  purged  itself  of  the  taint  of  fraud,  and  was  ready 
to  enter  with  clean  hands  into  the  climacteric  struggle 
that  was  rapidly  drawing  near. 

In  the  midst  of  this  seven-times-heated  furnace  of 
popular  thought  Martin  Kortright  laid  the  foundations 
of  his  manhood  at  the  academy  in  the  neighboring  vil- 
lage of  Rockboro.  There  Jared  Clarkson's  open  door 
invited  the  oppressed  to  share  a  welcome  that  took  no 
note  of  color  or  condition,  but  evidenced  forever  the 


230  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

sincerity  of  his  devotion  to  the  cause  of  Hberty  and 
equality  of  right  for  all.  The  eloquence  of  his  words 
was  excelled  by  the  eloquence  of  his  example.  Sken- 
doah  felt  the  new  life  that  came  with  western  gold,  and 
hammers  rung  and  forges  glowed  amid  the  roar  of  its 
prisoned  waterfall.  The  trustee  of  the  young  partners 
had  already  become  a  magnate  in  the  surrounding 
region.  Hilda  was  exiled  to  a  New  England  seminary, 
whose  cautious  principal  disapproved  all  agitation  of  the 
question  which,  despite  objection  and  protest  from  the 
best  and  wisest,  was  swiftly  coming  uppermost  in  the 
minds  of  all.  There  were  those  who  uncharitably  hinted 
that  the  good  lady's  dread  of  all  discussion  touching 
slavery  was  stimulated  by  the  lusty  term-bills  of  her 
Southern  patrons.  Sturmhold's  master  went  and  came, 
apparently  undisturbed  by  the  conflict  which  he  watched 
with  a  quiet,  puzzled  interest.  Among  the  people  who 
lived  near,  he  was  regarded  with  less  of  aversion  and  dis- 
trust than  when  he  was  considered  as  in  some  sort  a 
legitimate  successor  of  the  Patroon — a  nabob  who  dwelt 
in  their  midst  and  fed  upon  their  life.  His  intimate  con- 
nection with  Kortright  had  brought  him  nearer  to  his 
neighbors,  and  the  young  people  of  Paradise  Bay  and 
the  Castle  of  Folly  (as  it  was  sometimes  called  in  jest) 
upon  the  hillside,  were  already  looked  upon  as  lovers, 
of  whom  all  wished  only  good.  A  sad-faced  woman, 
whose  hair  was  blanched  to  a  soft  and  piteous  white,  sat 
at  the  board  and  wandered  about  the  rooms  of  the  great 
mansion,  waiting  patiently  for  the  light  that  came  only 
with  the  recurring  vacations  of  the  distant  seminary. 
The  master  went  sailing  but  little  of  late  in  his  j-acht, 
which  only  left  her  moorings  now  and  then  iii  charge  of 
the  faithful  Jason.  So  the  years  went  by  and  the  world's 
life  fled  faster  than  the  years. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A    WEEKLY     POST. 

It  was  in  the  fall  of  1854  that  Merwyn  Hargrove  sat 
in  his  spacious  library  Avith  the  weekly  packet  which, 
even  at  that  day,  was  all  the  service  the  Post  Office  De- 
partment could  give  to  the  chain  of  little  inland  vil- 
lages, the  route  between  which  Sturmhold  overlooked. 
Turning  over  the  pile  of  letters  that  were  placed  before 
him,  he  selected,  for  his  first  assault,  one  which  was 
directed  in  an  irregular,  girlish  hand,  the  sight  of  which 
brought  a  tender  light  to  his  eye.  He  broke  the  seal 
and  took  out  a  many -sheeted  letter,  written  across  and 
around  after  the  manner  dear  to  the  feminine  heart. 

I.    A  SCHOOL-GIRL'S  LARK, 

Beechwood  Seminary,       | 

BUKLINGDALE,  MaSS., .  | 

My  Dear  Papa  : — Miss  Huuniwell  has  sent  me  to  my 
room  to  write  a  letter  to  post  with  hers  enclosed.  She  al- 
ways does  so  when  she  has  to  send  any  unpleasant  word 
to  the  parents  or  guardians  of  her  scholars.  The  girls  say 
it  is  in  order  to  save  postage,  but  I  don't  reckon  that  is  the 
real  reason.  Anyhow  it  is  all  true  what  she  says  about 
our  running  away.  Amy  and  I,  but  we  only  did  it  for  a 
lark,  you  know,  just  as  boys  do  in  college.  Miss  Hunni- 
well  says  it  was  just  awful,  so  improper  and  unladylike 
and — and — everything  that  it  oughtn't  to  be,  and  I  sup- 
pose it  was  ;  but,  Papa  dear,  we  didn't  mean  anything  bad, 
only  to  have  a  little  fun,  you  know.  So  you  won't  scold 
us  too  hard,  will  you,  dear  Papa,  that  is  me,  because  Amy 
she  hasn't  got  any  papa,  nor  mamma  either,  and  she  don't 
know  who  her  guaidian  is,  only  he  sends  her  nice  presents 
231 


282  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

and  such  lots  of  money  and  things  through  the  hank  for 
her  holidays.  Isn't  that  nice  ?  Only  it  must  be  lonesome 
not  to  have  any  dear  old  papa  to  go  to  see  and  to  ride  with 
and  have  all  to  one's  self  in  the  long  vacation.  But  she 
won't  have  to  write  any  letter  of  explanation,  as  Miss  Hun- 
niwell  calls  it,  because  there  ain't  anybody  to  explain  to. 
Oh,  I  am  real  sorry  for  Amy.  She  is  such  a  jolly  girl,  and 
her  name  is  Hargrove,  too,  and  we  are  "sin  twisters"  as 
we  call  ourselves  in  sport,  that  is,  twin  sisters,  you  know. 
The  girls  called  us  that  because  we  were  together  so  much, 
and  we  put  it  the  other  way  for  short. 

But  Miss  Hunniwell  says  I  must  tell  you  all  about  it, 
and  I  am  to  stay  in  my  room  all  day  and  have  my  supper 
sent  up  to  me,  and  it  isn't  to  be  anything  either,  only  just 
some  "cambric  tea"  and  cracker,  and  I  know  I  shall  be 
just  as  hungry  as  can  be.  Well,  to  begin  at  the  beginning, 
I  don't  know  how  it  did  begin.  Amy  was  in  my  room  or  I 
was  in  hers,  as  we  most  always  are  together  in  one  or  the 
other,  and  she  proposed,  or  else  I  did,  that  we  should  have 
some  fun.  It 's  just  awful  dull  staying  here  in  the  house 
all  the  time,  unless  when  we  go  out  with  some  one  along 
to  see  that  we  are  just  as  "proper  "  as  can  be.  I  go  riding 
sometimes,  but  not  very  often,  because  I  am  the  only  one 
that  has  a  pony,  and  I  think  it  makes  the  girls  feel  a  little 
— just  a  little,  you  know — well,  if  I  could  take  one  of 
them  along  sometimes  it  wouldn't  seem  so  bad — I  know 
I  should  hate  a  girl  who  had  a  pony  if  I  didn  't  have 
any.  I  lend  him  to  one  of  them  sometimes,  and  then 
I  get  a  good  nice  ride  afterwards,  because  I  feel  then  that 
no  one  will  think  that  I  am  seltish,  you  know. 

Oh,  dear,  where  was  I?  I  don't  get  along  a  bit  in  my 
"explanation."  Oh,  yes;  we  were  in  my  room,  because 
that  looks  out  toward  the  west,  and  I  always  like  to 
watch  the  Sunset  there,  and  think  of  you  at  dear  Sturm- 
hold,  and  of  Aunt  Kortright  and  Mammy  and  all  of  you. 

("So  she  leaves  Martin  out,  eh?  AVrites  his  name 
and  then  erases  it,"  said  the  father,  as  he  paused  in  his 


A   WEEKLY  POST.  233 

reading  and  glanced  with  a  loving  look  up  at  his  daugh- 
ter's picture  that  hung  opposite;  him  upon  the  wall. 
After  a  moment  of  dreamy  scrutiny,  he  resumed. ) 

So  we  were  sitting  looking  out  at  my  window,  when  Amy 
moved  and  I  seconded  it,  as  they  said  at  the  meeting,  or 
else  I  moved  and  Amy  seconded  it,,  that  we  should  have 
some  fun.  And  then  I  proposed  one  thing  and  she  another, 
until  finally  one  or  the  other  suggested  that  we  should  go 
to  the  meeting  that  was  to  be  held  in  the  town  hall  that 
night.  You  see  from  my  room  we  can  go  right  out  on  the 
roof  of  the  wing  the  kitchen  is  in,  and  from  the  kitchen 
roof  down  on  the  wood-shed  roof,  and  the  back  end  of  that 
is  right  against  a  big  rock  that  one  can  get  on  with  a  pretty 
long  step,  and  just  walk  down  by  scrambling  a  little.  So, 
if  we  put  out  the  light  and  lock  our  doors,  Miss  Hunni- 
well  thinks  we  are  not  well,  and  have  gone  to  bed  early. 
She  is  a  great  believer  in  sleep,  and  is  real  kind  and  good, 
Papa  dear,  only  sort  of  notional  sometimes,  as  I  don't  see 
how  she  could  help  being  with  so  many  girls  to  invent 
"improper"  things  to  do  to  torment  her,  as  they  must. 

There  was  to  be  a  big  meeting  in  the  town  that  night^ 
what  they  call  an  '  Abolition' '  meeting — and  a  woman  was  to 
speak,  and  a  colored  man,  that  was  a  runaway  from  slavery, 
and  had  a  reward  otfered  for  him  ;  and  a  little  girl  was  to 
be  there,  not  as  old  as  I,  who  had  been  a  slave,  and  was 
bought  and  set  free  by  a  kind  gentleman  in  Boston,  who 
was  just  as  white  as  any  one — the  little  girl,  I  mean — 
and  it  was  all  so  dreadful,  and  so — so — like  a  circus. 
Papa,  only  more  so — more  exciting,  you  know — that  we 
couldn't  resist  the  temptation.  We  didn't  dare  ask  Miss 
Hunniwell,  because  we  knew  she  wouldn't  let  us  go.  Just 
that  morning  at  prayers  two  of  the  big  girls,  the  best  ones 
in  the  graduating  class,  real  ladies,  you  know,  they  asked 
her  if  they  might  go,  and  you  just  ought  to  have  heard 
her  go  on  at  them.  I  never  thought  she  could  talk  so — 
never.  She  said  the  Abolitionists  were  just  the  worst 
people ;  they  wanted  to  steal  and  rob  and  stir  up  strife 


234  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

and — oh,  I  don't  know  what  all,  but  it  was  awful — per- 
fectly awful.  And  I  thought  of  Mr.  Clarkson  and  Uncle 
Kortright,  and  I  told  Miss  Hunniwell  that  they  were  Abo- 
litionists, and  I  knew  they  weren't  bad  people  and  didn't 
want  to  do  anybody  any  harm,  and  I  wouldn't  have  them 
abused,  there  !  Then  I  cried.  But  when  I  called  Mr. 
Clarkson' s  name,  half  "the  girls  they  just  clapped  their 
hands  and  waved  their  handkerchiefs,  and  the  other  half 
they  hissed— just  like  a  lot  of  horrid,  ugly  boys — and  Miss 
Hunniwell  she  put  up  both  hands  and  shook  her  head  till 
her  gold  glasses  slipi^ed  almost  off  her  nose,  and  one  side 
was  tilted  up  and  the  other  hung  down  so  that  she  looked 
at  me  over  one  glass  and  under  the  other,  and — I  couldn't 
help  it,  you  know — I  burst  out  laughing,  and  then  both 
sides  stopped  cheering  and  hissing  and  we  all  laughed  till 
we  cried,  and  Miss  Hunniwell  she  stamped  and  screamed, 
and  I  got  sent  to  my  room  for  being  bad.  But  I  couldn't 
help  it.  Papa.     It  was  just  too  funny  for  anything. 

Well,  that  night — last  night,  you  know — we  were  sit- 
ting here  in  my  room  looking  for  the  stars  to  come  out, 
and  seeing  them  light  the  town  hall  in  the  village  below, 
and  the  people  going  in,  men  and  women  and  children, 
when  one  of  us  proposed  that  w^e  should  go  and  see  the 
fun  anyhow^  "The  weight  of  the  meetin',"  as  the  chair- 
man said  after  he  put  something  to  vote  last  night,  was 
"in  favor  on't."  So  wc  locked  our  doors,  without  light- 
ing the  caudles,  and  put  on  ovxr  hoods  and  wraps  and 
crawled  along  the  roof  and  went  to  the  meeting.  Oh,  Papa, 
it  was  such  fun — I  mean  it  was  so  sad,  you  know.  The 
black  man  that  had  been  a  slave  was  as  big  as  our  Jason, 
and  he  told,  oh,  such  horrible  stories  of  how  they  cut  and 
walloped  him.  I  held  my  fingers  in  my  ears,  it  was  so 
terrible.  But  I  could  hear  every  word  just  as  plain  as 
could  be.  And  then  he  told  such  aw-ful  things  about  his 
masters,  and  called  the  slaveholders  such  bad  names,  and 
stamped  his  foot  and  looked  as  if  he  was  going  to  swear. 
But  he  didn't,  only  kept  on  abusing  all  the  masters  just 


i 


.1   WEEKLY  POST.  235 

too  bad  to  think  about,  till  I  just  hated  them,  just  as  bad 
as  he,  I  do  believe,  when  all  at  once  I  thought  that  you 
were  a  slaveholder,  and  grandpa,  and  grandma,  and  Uncle 
George  and  all  the  relations.  I  was  so  angry  at  that  man 
that  I  forgot  where  I  was,  and  I  jumped  right  up  there  in 
that  meeting,  where  it  was  just  as  still  as  death,  only  fcfi- 
the  man  that  was  talking,  and  said,  "It  ain't  any  such 
thing,  sir !  My  Papa  is  a  slaveholder,  and  he  isn't  any 
bad  man.  And  I  think  you  must  have  been  a  pretty  bad 
nigger,  too,  or  you  wouldn't  have  got  walloped  so  much  !" 
Then  there  was  an  uproar.  Some  cheered  and  some 
hissed,  and  I  heard  them  ask,  "Who  is  it?"  And  then 
some  one  said,  "  It 's  one  of  Miss  Himniwell's  girls, "  and  for 
a  minute  all  was  confusion.  The  man  stopped  speaking 
and  held  up  his  hand  with  the  palm  toward  us,  and  just 
shook  it  a  minute,  and  everybody  was  just  as  still  as  the 
gi'ave.  It  almost  frightened  me,  there  was  such  a  hush 
came  over  that  crowded  house.  The  palm  of  his  hand  had 
that  queer  yellow  look  that  made  it  seem  as  if  he  was  sick. 
It  trembled,  too,  and  he  looked,  oh  !  so  changed  and  ten- 
der, as  if  the  tears  were  going  to  overflow  the  eyes  that 
had  burned  so  hatefully  a  minute  before.  I  cried  as 
soon  as  the  people  made  such  a  clamor  about  what  I 
had  said,  but  I  had  to  take  my  handkerchief  down  to  look 
at  that  man.  So  I  sat  and  bit  my  handkerchief  and  cried 
and  watched  him.  He  came  out  to  the  very  edge  of  the 
platform  and  said,  "Will  my  little  Missy  let  me  ask  her 
forgiveness?  I  was  wrong.  Anger  made  me  unjust. 
There  are  good  men  and  women  who  are  slave  masters 
and  mistresses,  and,  thank  God,  there  are  good  little  mis- 
tresses like  her,  too."  Then  I  was  ashamed,  and  hid  my 
face  while  he  went  on  to  tell  of  his  master's  little  girl, 
who  was  so  kind  and  good  to  him  that  he  never  thought 
of  Heaven  without  thinking  that  she  would  make  it  lighter 
and  sweeter  by  her  presence.  Oh,  it  was  just  lovely  the  ten- 
der things  he  said,  and  the  soft,  low  tones  in  which  he  spoke. 
I  heard  tlie  people  on  eacb  side,  of  me  sobbing  and  sigh- 


236  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

ing,  but  I  didn't  cry  any  more.  I  just  kept  my  head  in 
my  hands  and  wondered  to  myself.  I  kept  saying  over  and 
over  again,  ''Can  this  be  a  black  man?  Why  should  he 
be,  and  why  should  he  have  been  a  slave?"  Though,  for 
that  matter,  I  think  I  should  rather  be  a  slave  than  be 
black  ;  and  if  I  was  black  it  don't  seem  to  me  I  should 
care  much  what  else  I  was.  I  got  to  thinking  about  that 
so  much  that  I  didn't  notice  w^hat  went  on  afterwards. 

The  woman  spoke,  I  remember,  and  she  brought  out  the 
little  girl  who  had  been  a  slave  and  was  sold  on  the  block. 
And,  Papa,  it  was  a  fact,  she  was  just  as  white  as  I.  Then 
the  woman  spoke  some  more,  but  I  didn't  mind  what  she 
said  or  what  went  on,  till,  all  at  once,  I  heard  the  strangest 
voice  I  ever  listened  to,  and  lookuig  on  the  platform  I  saw 
a  man  I  can  never  forget.  He  looked  to  me  like  some  one 
out  of  the  Scripture  dressed  in  our  every-day  clothes.  He 
had  a  full,  broad  forehead,  from  which  the  hair  grew 
away  of  its  own  accord  all  around  in  heavy  waves.  His 
eyes  were  very  wide  apart,  and  looked  so  straight  out 
from  imder  his  heavy  brows  that  they  seemed  to  see  right 
through  me.  They  did  not  flash,  but  seemed  to  burn  with 
a  steady,  clear  light.  His  face  had  a  hard,  stern  look,  and 
his  wide  mouth  shut  so  close  that  I  could  hardly  see  the 
color  of  his  lips  from  where  we  sat.  He  was  a  tall,  straight 
man,  and  wore  a  good  dark  suit  of  clothes,  which  seemed 
to  be  new  and  not  quite  what  he  liked  to  wear.  His  voice 
was  not  exactly  loud,  but  it  seemed  to  come  directly  to 
one  as  if  sent  for  a  special  purpose.  I  didn't  think  of  any- 
thing else  while  he  was  speakmg.  I  couldn't.  I  don't 
remember  what  he  said,  only  that  he  was  "glad  that 
slavery  was  coming  out  of  its  shell.  It  could  not  be  killed 
with  honey.  Instead  of  smooth  words  it  would  take  hard 
blows.  The  cry  of  the  poor  in  bondage  was  for  help.  The 
rich  and  pow^erful  must  be  taught  to  respect  the  weak. 
The  master  must  be  brought  low  before  the  slave  could 
be  lifted  up.  He  had  no  feeling  of  revenge.  He  did  not 
hate  the  master.     He  pitied  the  mistress  and  Uttk  ones, 


A  WEEKLY  POST.  237 

But  the  will  of  the  Lord  must  be  clone.  He  had  built  up 
in  mercy,  He  would  tear  down  in  wrath." 

He  did  not  say  very  much,  and  what  he  did  say  does  not 
seem  very  remarkable  to  me  now,  but  then  somehow  it 
seemed  as  if  he  spoke  with  authority.  I  did  not  weep  or 
tremble  as  when  the  other  man  was  speaking,  but  I  could 
not  help  thinking  that  this  man  knew  all  about  it  and  was 
saying  what  was  the  very  truth.  I  could  never  have  in- 
terrupted him  even  if  he  had  abused  you  by  name,  dear 
Papa.  I  should  just  as  soon  have  thought  of  interrupting 
Elijah  if  I  had  heard  him  cursing  the  priests  of  Baal.  He 
seemed  just  as  much  a  prophet.  Just  before  he  sat  down 
he  said  :  "I  want  to  tell  that  little  girl  who  spoke  up  for 
her  father  to-night  that  I  am  sure  no  one  meant  to  hurt 
her  feelings.  I  am  sorry  her  father  is  a  slaveholder,  and 
hope  she  will  persuade  him  to  let  the  oppressed  go  free." 

Then  there  were  some  resolutions,  and  just  as  they  were 
going  to  adjourn  this  man  came  down  the  aisle  and  asked 
me  my  name,  and  when  I  told  Jiim  he  said,  "Hargrove? 
Hargrove  ?     Where  from  ?" 

I  said,  "Sturmhold,  near  Skendoah." 

"Yes.  Merwyn  Hargrove,''  he  said  as  quietly  as  if  he 
was  looking  right  at  you,  and  he  asked  me  about  Jason 
and  Mammy,  too,  as  if  he  had  known  them  all  his  life. 

Then  he  went  back  on  the  platform  and  said  with  a 
queer  smile  :  "I  want  to  say  that  if  all  the  slave  masters 
were  like  this  young  lady's  father  there  would  be  no  more 
call  for  such  meetings  as  this." 

Then  everybody  looked  at  me,  and  I  was  too  surprised 
to  mind  it  at  all.  What  did  he  mean.  Papa?  Everybody 
cheered  and  seemed  to  think  that  I  was  entitled  to  a  great 
a  deal  of  consideration.  There  was  a  great  company  going 
by  the  Seminary  when  the  meeting  was  over,  and  they  in- 
sisted on  paying  us  attention,  so  that  we  couldn't  slip 
away  to  climb  up  our  rock  and  get  back  into  the  window. 
Indeed,  two  of  the  young  men  walked  up  to  the  door 
with  us,  and  cue  of  theiiw  sounded  the  kuockei-  before  I 


238  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

could  get  my  wits  together  to  stop  him.  After  a  long- 
time the  door  opened  and  there  stood  Miss  Hunniwell. 
You  should  have  seen  her.  But  the  letter  she  sends  will 
tell  you  all  about  it,  I  suppose.  We  must  have  been  very 
bad,  though  I  don't  see  what  harm  there  is  in  it.  If  you 
say  there  is  any  I  will  not  do  so  any  more. 

Oh,  dear  Papa,  I  want  to  see  you  so  much  !  I  want  to 
tell  you  something  that  I  don't  know  how  to  write.  You 
know  you  told  Miss  Hunniwell  she  was  never  to  open  my 
letters,  and  you  told  Martin,  too,  that  he  might  write  to 
me  and  I  might  write  to  him  twice  every  month.  It  was 
very  kind  of  you,  dear  Papa,  and  it  has  been  a  great  plea- 
sure to  me,  but  I  am  not  certain  that  you  meant  that  he 
should  write  as  he  has  done  lately.  He  wants  to  be  my 
lover,  Papa.  You  may  not  think  it  right,  though  I  hope 
you  will  not  be  hard  on  Martin,  for  I  do  love  him,  Papa — 
though  I  have  not  told  him  so,  and  will  not  until  I  have 
your  permission.  Perhaps  I  am  too  young  to  think  of 
such  things,  bvit  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had  always  loved 
Martin  ever  since  he  stopped  the  horses  when  they  were 
running  away.  Then  he  has  been  with  me  so  much  at 
home  that  it  seems  just  as  natural  to  love  him  as  to  love 
you,  only  it  is  different,  of  course.  I  never  thought  of  it 
in  that  way  until  he  wrote,  and  am  sure  I  ought  to  let  you 
know.  You  are  such  a  good  papa  that  I  know  you  will 
do  just  what  is  right,  and  you  maybe  sure  your  "little 
Hilda"  will  obey  your  wishes.  Please  do  not  be  angry  at 
Martin  if  he  has  done  wrong.  I  inclose  you  his  letter. 
When  you  read  it  just  think  you  have  me  in  your  arms 
with  my  face  hid  in  your  bosom  and  the  blushes  burning 
my  cheeks  as  they  do  now. 

Your  loving  daughter,  Hilda. 

P.  S. — That  strange  man  is  named  Brown — John  Brown. 
Do  you  know  him  ?  I  suppose  you  do  not.  He  is  only  a 
common  working  man  I  should  say  from  appearances,  per- 
haps a  farmer,  but  I  think  John  the  Baptist  must  have  been 
just  such  a  man.      Amy  thinks  he  was  perfectly  horrid, 


A   WEEK f A-  POST.  239 

and  all  the  rest  of  tliem,  too.  She  just  hates  them,  she 
says,  and  doesn't  see  how  any  Southern  man's  daughter 
can  endure  them  for  a  minute.  She  is  the  Southernest 
girl  in  the  whole  school.  I  think,  though,  that  if  these 
people  and  Uncle  Kortright  and  Mr.  CUarkson  are  a  sample 
of  what  Abolitionists  are  like,  ]\Ir.  Brown  was  about  right 
when  he  said  last  night  that  he  had  been  "accustomed 
to  move  in  the  best  society  for  twenty  years  — the  society  of 
fugitive  slaves  and  Abolitionists."  H.  H. 

P.  S. — Please  return  Martin's  letter  and  write  very  soon, 
won't  you  ?     That 's  a  dear  Papa.  H. 

P.  S. — I  forgot  to  ask  if  you  think  my  explanation  is 
sufficient.  If  it  is  please  write  and  tell  Miss  Hunniwell 
that  I  am  your  spoiled  Hilda  and  must  be  allowed  a  few 
"improprieties." 

The  father  paused  a  monieut  when  he  had  finished 
this  long  epistle,  and  looked  up  to  the  portrait  in  tender 
thought.  Then  he  opened  one  of  the  enclosures.  It 
was  written  in  a  coarse,  sprawling  hand,  that  almost 
made  its  fervid  words  ridiculous.  The  father  smiled  at 
the  careful  request  for  its  return  that  Hilda  had  repeated 
on  the  letter  itself  lest  it  should  escape  his  memory. 
Then  he  re-read  a  part  of  his  daughter's  letter  ;  walked 
up  and  down  the  room  a  few  times,  and  glanced  at  the 
letter  of  the  principal  of  Beechwood  Seminary,  which 
was  full  of  regrets  and  excuses  for  the  corruption  of 
mind  to  which  his  daughter  had  been  exposed  despite 
the  care  of  the  teacher's.  Miss  Hunniwell  was  no  doubt 
distressed  and  alarmed  at  the  escapade  of  the  rich  man's 
daughter.  He  answered  this  in  a  few  curt  sentences 
requesting  that  his  daughter  have  full  liberty  to  go 
where  she  chose  among  the  good  people  of  Burlingdale 
whenever  her  time  was  not  required  for  the  perform- 
ance of  any  school  duty.  As  to  what  she  had  done, 
he  did  not  see  anything  reprehensible  in  it  except 
the  deception  practiced  upon  Miss  Hunniwell  herself, 


240  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

which  he  thought  would  never  have  been  attempted  if 
instead  of  being  watched  she  had  been  trusted.  As  to 
its  being  an  Abolition  meeting,  he  saw  no  reason  why- 
she  should  not  attend  this  as  well  as  any  other.  She 
had  to  form  her  own  opinions,  and  this  was  one  of  the 
questions  on  which  she  might  yet  be  called  to  act,  and 
he  should  prefer  that  she  should  act  intelligently. 

The  good  woman's  amazement  knew  no  bounds  when 
she  read  this  reply.  Was  it  possible  that  a  slaveholder 
could  doubt  upon  the  question  of  slavery  ?  The  ques- 
tion itself  almost  disturbed  her  own  faith  in  the  Scrip- 
ture which  saith  "  Servants,  obey  your  masters." 

II.    A   WISE  man's   warning. 

The  next  letter  that  Merwyn  Hargrove  opened  was 
written  in  a  cramped,  close  hand,  but  every  character 
was  clear  and  perfect,  and  the  mind  of  a  strong  man 
shone  out  from  the  closely -lined  page. 

Oak  Ridge,  Oct.  24,  '54. 
My  Dear  Captain  : — If  you  are  still  bent  upon  carry- 
ing your  Quixotic  scheme  into  effect,  it  is  no  doubt  neces- 
sary that  you  should  remove  the  slaves  from  the  country 
entirely.  In  the  first  place,  they  would  not  be  safe  any- 
where in  the  United  States  should  the  collateral  heirs  ever 
obtain  a  decision  against  you,  as  they  are  nearly  certain  to 
do  if  they  ever  get  you  into  court  here.  The  passage  of 
this  new  Fugitive  Slave  Law  was  a  great  piece  of  folly  on 
the  part  of  our  Southern  Congressmen.  They  meant  well 
enough,  but  were  mighty  short-sighted.  Anything  that 
keeps  up  the  agitation  about  slavery  is  bad  policy.  We 
had  a  deal  better  just  have  submitted  to  the  loss  of  the 
few  slaves  that  get  away  and  said  nothing  more  about 
them.  After  a  negro  has  once  been  in  a  free  state  a  little 
while  he  is  good  for  nothing  more  anyhow.  He  may  do  to 
sell  South  and  work  on   the  sugar    i)lantations,  but  the 


A  WEEKLY  POST.  Ul 

chances  are  that  he  '11  keep  on  running  away  till  he  gets 
himself  killed  or  so  torn  by  dogs  that  he  is  good  for 
nothing  afterwards.  This  law  will  just  encourage  all  our 
people  to  spend  twice  the  value  of  a  slave  getting  him 
back,  and  keep  the  North  in  a  constant  tumult  till 
somehow  or  other  they  will  find  out  a  way  to  set  the 
last  one  of  them  free.  I  don't  know  how  it  will  be 
done,  but  I  'm  clearly  of  the  mind  that  this  law  will  be 
the  death-knell  of  slavery  inside  of  fifty  years — perhaps 
inside  of  twenty.  It 's  the  biggest  piece  of  folly  I  've  ever 
known. 

If  Gilman  had  his  judgment  against  you,  though,  he 
wouldn't  lose  any  time  in  getting  hold  of  those  negroes 
you  took  to  Ohio.  It  would  be  the  same  anywhere  in  the 
Northern  States.  Besides  that,  it  is  simply  a  refinement 
of  cruelty  to  take  a  negro  to  that  climate,  set  him  free  and 
expect  him  to  make  a  living.  With  all  that  you  did  for 
those  you  emancipated,  I  '11  wager  you've  had  to  help  sup- 
port them  ever  since.  The  great  philanthropist  who  oftered 
that  immense  tract  in  the  Adirondacks  to  negro  settlers 
gratis,  might  just  as  well  have  given  them  a  quarter  sec- 
tion each  in  Nova  Zembla.  No  humane  master  would  be  so 
cruel  as  to  send  a  slave  there.  I  suppose  it  will  make  a 
big  transfer  station  on  the  Underground  Railroad — a  sort 
of  harbor  where  they  can  stop  on  the  way  to  Canada,  and 
perhaps  they  may  get  so  strong  after  a  while  that  a  mar- 
shal will  not  care  to  serve  process  among  them.  But  I 
think  if  you  will  do  it,  you  should  send  them  to  Liberia. 
If  a  negro  is  not  going  to  be  a  slave  he  has  no  business  to 
live  among  white  folks.  The  greatest  nuisance  in  the 
world  and  the  most  dangerous  element  in  the  land  is  the 
free  black  population  of  the  Southern  States.  I  say  Libe- 
ria, too,  because  it  may  be  that  the  Colonization  Society 
would  pay  part  of  the  cost  of  transporting  them  there. 
I  do  not  know.  I  hear  they  are  very  full  this  year,  and 
they  may  not  have  transportation  for  any  but  those  paying 
full  rates  for  passage.     The  only  objection  to  this  is  its 


S42  HOT  PL  0  WSHA RKS. 

cost.  And  right  here  let  me  ask  if  you  have  fully  con- 
sidered what  it  costs  a  Southern  man  to  be  an  Abolitionist  ? 
Our  Northern  friends  talk  about  it  very  glibly ;  and  well 
they  may.  It  costs  them  nothing  but  fine  words.  Now 
take  your  case.  There  is  first  the  value  of  these  seventy- 
six  or  seventy-eight  slaves  and  the  twenty-one  you  sent  to 
Ohio.  It  is  not  a  cent  less  than  eighty  thousand  dollars. 
Then  the  cost  of  transportation  is  a  hundred  dollars  apiece, 
if  they  go  to  Liberia.  At  least  that  is  the  estimate  I  find 
made  in  an  old  Congressional  report  by  the  chairman,  who 
seemed  to  know  what  he  was  talking  about.  It  would 
take,  I  suppose,  as  much  more  to  set  them  on  their  feet  and 
give  them  a  fair  start  toward  getting  a  living  there.  This 
will  make  it  at  least  $100,000.  It  is  not  much  wonder 
there  are  so  few  Abolitionists  among  our  planters.  If  they 
thought  slavery  was  wrong  not  one  in  twenty  of  them 
could  aftbrd  to  be  right. 

But  in  your  case  this  is  only  half  the  loss.  You  lose 
the  slaves  like  any  one  else,  but  if  the  collaterals  should 
get  a  judgment  against  you,  as  they  certainly  will  if  they 
ever  get  service  of  process,  you  will  have  to  pay  for  the 
last  one  of  them,  and  pay  for  the  use  and  enjoyment  you 
have  had  of  them,  too.  You  are,  I  suppose,  very  wealthy. 
Amity  Lake  and  the  negroes  you  sold  with  it  gave  you  a 
good  send-ofif,  and  I  hear  yoii  dropped  into  some  very  good 
investments  afterward.  They  tell  me  you  are  selling  ofl:' 
your  land,  which  is  a  very  good  idea.  It  will  never  be 
worth  any  more  than  now,  when  everybody  has  gone  wild 
over  California  and  dreams  of  having  gold  as  plenty  as 
pewter  in  a  few  years.  I  'm  not  so  sure  about  it  being  a 
wise  thing  to  put  the  money  into  telegraph  poles  and 
wires,  as  I  hear  you  are  doing.  However,  that  is  your 
lookout.  Fortunes  are  easier  made  now  than  in  my  day, 
when  they  only  came  by  hard  work.  However  rich  you 
may  be,  you  can  hardly  fail  to  think  twice  before  risking 
any  such  sum  as  this.  Let  me  advise  you  once  more  to 
abandon  all  idea  of  doing  it.     To  my  mind,  you  are  carry- 


A  WEEKLY  POST.  243 

ing  a  point  of  honor  too  far  when  yon  imperil  yonr  own 
estate  just  to  carry  ont  your  brother's  silly  notions.  If 
you  should  lose  Mallowbanks  and  have  to  pay  for  the 
slaves  you  have  already  liberated,  George  Eighmie's  be- 
quest would  be  a  very  costly  one  to  you  even  now.  He 
certainly  cannot  have  expected  you  to  use  the  proceeds  of 
the  slaves  you  sold  with  Amity  Lake  in  order  to  set  his 
Mallowbanks  negroes  free.  But  all  this  is  for  you  alone 
to  consider.  As  to  whether  there  will  be  any  difficulty  in 
getting  them  away,  I  should  say  it  would  have  to  be  done 
very  expeditiously.  The  idea  seems  to  have  gotten  out 
that  you  are  going  to  free  them,  and  you  might  have 
trouble  if  you  tried  to  take  away  so  many  at  once.  Of 
course,  it  won't  do  for  me  to  have  anything  to  do  with  it, 
and  I  can  think  of  no  one  you  can  trust  with  such  a  deli- 
cate business.  You  might  get  a  Northern  agent — but  his 
lack  of  knowledge  of  the  ways  of  the  people  would  make  his 
success  doubtful,  and  his  presence  of  itself  would  awaken 
suspicion.  If  there  were  not  so  many  of  them,  the  best 
way  would  be  to  take  them  out  by  the  Sound ;  but  there 
are  more  than  your  little  schooner  could  carry,  I  suppose. 
However  you  proceed,  be  very  careful.  If  you  will  let  me 
know  when  it  is  to  be  done  I  will  be  in  that  region  to  help 
you  if  you  get  into  any  trouble.  If  the  Colonization  So- 
ciety will  take  them  it  would  perhaps  be  better,  as  their 
agent  would  then  attend  to  the  removal.  You  may  as 
well  make  up  your  mind  to  this.  However,  you  will  never 
get  those  negroes  out  of  the  county  if  your  intention  to 
remove  them  is  known  two  hours  before  the  start  is  made. 
However  you  may  attempt  it,  count  on  this  to  a  certainty. 
I  think  that  boy  of  George's  is  in  Virginia ;  but  I  am 
afraid  there  is  no  doubt  the  mother  is  colored.  I  had  a 
notion  something  might  be  learned  to  the  contrary,  and 
went  myself  to  investigate.  Tliere  is  no  room  for  doubt. 
She  is  a  quadroon.  It 's  a  pity,  too,  for  I  don't  know  when 
I  have  seen  one  I  felt  so  much  sympathy  for.  Poor  wo- 
man ! 


244  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

If  there  is  any  tiling  further  I  can  do,  you  will  please 
command  me  at  all  times. 

Yours  very  truly, 

Matthew  Bartlemy. 

ni.  "good  lord  and  good  devil." 
The   next   letter  bore   the  heading  of  an  institution 
especially  characteristic  of  those  times. 

Office  of  the  American  ) 
Colonization  Society.  \ 
Dear  Sir  :  I  am  sorry  to  inform  you  that  we  have  care- 
fully examined  the  status  of  the  seventy-six  negroes  named 
in  your  application  for  transportation  to  Liberia,  and  have 
fully  determined  to  decline  receiving  them  as  colonists. 
Our  Society  is  not  designed  in  any  degree  to  interfere  with 
the  institution  of  slavery.  With  its  right  or  wrong,  law- 
fulness, humanity,  extension  or  continuance  we  have  no- 
thing to  do.  The  removal  and  colonization  of  free  blacks 
on  the  western  coast  of  Africa  at  their  own  desire,  or  at 
least  with  their  full  consent,  is  our  sole  purpose.  The  first 
requisite  in  all  cases  is  that  they  should  be  free — free  be- 
yond a  peradventure.  '  As  the  usefulness  of  the  Society 
depends  in  large  degree  upon  the  hearty  co-operation  of 
slave  owners  as  well  as  those  opposed  to  the  institution,  we 
could  not  think  of  interfering  in  any  case  where  there  was  a 
doubt,  even,  as  to  the  freedom  of  the  parties  offering  as  colo- 
nists. In  this  case,  while  you  no  doubt  consider  your 
right  to  manumit  the  slaves  in  question  to  be  indisputable, 
yet  we  are  informed  that  it  is  not  only  questioned  but  is 
likely  to  be  controverted  by  parties  who  imagine  that  they 
have  a  much  better  right  to  the  possession  and  control  of 
this  property. 

In  such  a  case  it  would  be  manifestly  indiscreet  for  the 
Society  to  allow  itself  to  be  in  the  remotest  degree  con- 
cerned. I  enclose  you  a  report  of  the  proceedings  of  our 
last  annual  meeting,  with  the  speech  of  Mr.  Clay,  and 
other  documents,  from  which  you  will  gather  our  purpose 


A   WEEKLY  POtiT.  245 

as  an  organization  more  fully.  It  is  now  some  twenty-five 
years  since  Mr.  Clay,  with  that  lucidity  of  statement  pecu- 
liar to  him,  expounded  the  doctrine  on  which  our  Society 
is  founded,  and  to  which  it  has  steadily  adhered  since  its 
first  institution,  to  wit,  the  removal  of  that  greatest  of 
all  nuisances  to  civilization,  the  free  black.  We  do  not 
interfere  with  the  slave  or  slavery,  pro  or  con.  We  are 
neither  for  nor  against  it.  The  free  black  in  the  midst  of  a 
slave  population  is  an  element  of  danger  and  corruption  ;  in 
the  midst  of  a  free  white  population  he  is  cheated  and  op- 
pressed, and  can  never  occupy  an  independent  position  or 
acquire  a  healthy  development.  He  is  an  excrescence  on 
the  social  body.  We  confine  all  our  attention  to  this  one 
evil.  We  seek  to  remove  the  free  man  of  color  to  a  soil 
and  climate  where,  unrepressed  by  the  power  and  prestige 
of  the  Caucasian,  he  may  develop  and  grow  into  a  man- 
hood such  as  his  capacity  may  warrant.  We  not  only  do 
not  receive  for  transportation  cases  in  which  there  is  any 
doubt  as  to  the  right  of  the  master  to  manumit,  but  we 
could  not  allow  them  to  land  as  colonists  if  transported 
thither  at  your  expense. 

Regretting  the  necessity  that  compels  a  negative  answer 
to  your  very  liberal  proposition,  I  remain, 

Yours  very  truly, 

A M ,  Secretary. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  library  door  as  the  master 
of  Sturmhold  finished  reading  this  letter,  and  in  answer 
to  his  invitation  Martin  Kortright  entered. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

A  MO]VIENTOUS  QUESTION. 

There  Avas  a  flush  on  the  face  of  Martin  Kortright 
as  he  advanced  quickly  across  the  spacious  Hbrary  and 
exchanged  greetings  with  the  grave,  easy-mannered  man 
beside  the  heaped-up  writing  table,  and  who  welcomed 
him  with  something  of  surprise.  After  shaking  hands 
with  his  visitor,  Hargrove  motioned  to  a  chair  that 
stood  opposite  to  his  ov*^n  and  scrutinized  the  young  man 
somewhat  more  critically  than  usual  as  he  sat  down. 
This  was  his  daughter's  suitor — her  first  suitor,  and, 
judging  from  her  words,  likely  to  be  the  last,  if  only  the 
impulse  of  her  heart  was  to  be  regarded  in  the  decision. 
He  could  not  blame  her.  Martin  Kortright,  at  eighteen, 
must  have  been  confessed  by  the  most  casual  observer  to 
be  a  very  proper  young  man.  In  his  person  the  father's 
ruggedness  had  been  softened  by  the  mother's  fullness 
of  outhne.  The  keen,  blue  eyes  and  massive  brow  of 
Harrison  Kortright  were  happily  blended  in  his  counte- 
nance with  the  richer  complexion  and  rounder  oval  of 
Martha  Ermendorf  His  lips  were  as  mobile  as  his 
father's,  but  had  something  of  the  fullness  and  color 
that  still  made  his  mother's  smile  so  sweet. 

Ever  since  his  first  visit  there,  Martin  Kortright  had 
made  Sturmhold  his  "other  home,"  as  he  had  been 
Avont  to  call  it.  "Martin's  room  "  had  been  one  of  the 
permanently  appropriated  apartments  of  the  mansion. 
It  was  never  occupied  by  any  one  else,  and  was  always 
kept  ready  for  his  coming.  The  life  of  the  hillside 
ai6 


A  MOMENTOL,S  QUESTION.  247 

mansion   had   become  in  him    inextricably  interwoven 
with  that  of  the  humbler  home  in  the  valley. 

To  Hilda  he  had  been  as  a  brother.  Neither  had  any 
other  intimate  associates  of  their  own  age.  Between 
them  there  had  never  been  the  least  restraint,  and  in  all 
these  years  no  serious  estrangement.  Mr.  Hargrove 
had  come  to  love  the  sturdy  boy  almost  as  a  son,  all 
the  more  easily  because  of  his  young  daughter's  evident 
ibndness  for  her  playmate  and  protector.  Then,  too, 
the  boy  had  made  his  w^ay  like  a  conqueror  into  the 
alfections  of  the  whole  household.  Jason,  the  faithful 
butler,  had  long  known  him  only  as  "  Marse  Martin." 
Hargrove  could  not  have  resisted,  if  he  would,  his  frank 
intrepidity. 

Pie  had  not  planned  that  Hilda  and  Martin  should 
love  each  other.  In  flict,  the  simple  words  of  his  daugh- 
ter had  brought  to  him  that  feeling  of  jealous  surprise 
with  Avhich  a  loving  parent  always  learns  that  the  life 
he  has  cherished  is  to  be  dissevered  from  his  OAvn.  Yet, 
while  he  had  not  purposely  designed  to  promote  this  re- 
sult, he  had  more  than  once  contemplated  it  as  a  pos- 
sible contingency,  and  he  was  not  unwilling  that  it 
should  occur.  He  remembered  that  in  the  very  moment 
when  he  said  to  Harrison  Kortright,  "Let  them  be 
partners,"  it  occurred  to  him  that  it  would  be  an  odd 
instance  of  our  American  conglomeration  of  races  and 
peoples  if  his  Hilda,  sprung  from  the  buccaneer,  the 
planter,  and  the  exile  of  sunny  Italy,  with  a  dash  of 
Quaker  steadfastness  in  her  veins,  should  mate  with  the 
child  of  the  Dutch  Yankee,  the  oftspring  of  chill  Ncav 
England  and  phlegmatic  Netherlands.  After  all,  he 
thought,  it  would  only  be  Yeoman  Hargrove  and  Yeoman 
Cartwright  striking  hands  across  the  centuries  in  the 
persons  of  their  children,  whose  English  lives  had  sub- 
jugated the  currents  of  foreign  blood  that  swelled  their 
veins.     It  was  strange  that  he  should  quietly  have  con- 


248  HOT  PLOWSHAEES. 

templatcd  this  coutingency.  He  was  not  without  pride 
of  birth.  The  father  and  the  father's  father,  whose 
portraits  looked  down  from  his  Ubrary  walls,  were  not 
men  to  beget  oftspring  who  could  be  otherwise  than 
proud  of  their  name  and  achievements.  There  was  not, 
it  is  true,  the  warmth  of  attachment  between  him  and 
the  other  branches  of  the  Hargrove  stock  that  one  is 
accustomed  to  find  among  kindred  in  the  South.  In- 
deed, he  hardly  seemed  to  have  any  kindred  in  the 
sense  of  near  relations.  The  owner  of  the  "Quarter," 
in  the  old  days,  had  been  the  Hargrove  of  that  region. 
His  kinsmen  had  lacked  the  inherent  force  necessary 
to  enable  them  to  rise  above  the  rank  in  which  they 
had  been  born.  As  the  family  grew  rich  and  strong 
they  gathered  around  and  shared  its  prosperity.  They 
were  rather  privileged  henchmen  than  kindred  and 
equals.  So,  too,  the  family  alliances  had  not  generally 
been  with  the  very  best  of  the  vicinity.  The  taint  of 
yeoman  origin,  as  well  as  the  somewhat  rough  manners 
of  the  early  owners  of  the  Quarter,  had  prevented  that. 
His  father's  Northern  marriage  had  been  seriously  re- 
sented by  the  connection  when  they  found  that  it  was 
not  sufficiently  lucrative  to  restore  the  lavishness  of  the 
old  regime.  They  had  looked  very  coldly  on  the  young 
widow  who  came  to  face  the  prospect  of  penury  on  the 
encumbered  plantation,  and  never  quite  forgave  her  for 
capturing  the  heart  of  Colonel  Eighmie  and,  through 
his  aid,  avoiding  the  fate  that  apparently  awaited 
her.  It  is  very  hard  for  people  to  permit  themselves  to 
be  forgiven.  So  when  he  himself  returned  with  his  fair 
foreign  bride  he  found  the  consanguineous  Hargroves 
green  with  envy  at  the  good  fortune  that  had  fallen  to 
his  lot.  They  had,  too,  the  distrust  peculiar  to  that  re- 
gion, of  those  who  come  from  abroad  or  whose  habits  of 
life  and  methods  of  thought  are  not  formed  on  their 
peculiar  models.      When,    therefore,  he   espoused   his 


A  MOMENTOUS  QUESTION.  249 

brother's  cause  against  a  public  sentiment,  than  which 
nothing  could  be  more  intense  and  bitter,  they  were  but 
too  glad  to  disown  any  responsibility  for  his  conduct 
and  to  withdraw  from  him  not  only  their  approval  but 
also  their  society.  Absorbed  in  each  other  and  the 
gay  life  they  met  at  the  Northern  resorts  which  they 
visited,  Merwyn  and  his  Rietta  had  cared  little  for 
such  conduct  on  the  part  of  those  who,  though  rela- 
tives by  blood,  had  been  only  strangers  in  fact.  His 
devotion  to  his  wife,  whose  foreign  birth  and  education 
separated  her  somewhat  from  society,  tended  even  more 
to  secure  their  complete  isolation.  Till  her  death  he 
had  wished  for  nothing  more  than  her  presence.  To 
please  him  was  the  aim  of  her  existence ;  to  be  with 
her  the  height  of  his  desire.  Their  very  fitness  to 
adorn  society  had,  in  a  sense,  shut  them  out  from  it  by 
making  each  sufficient  for  the  other's  pleasure.  The 
presence  of  others  was  a  restraint  to  them — an  intrusion 
into  that  paradise  which  they  held  saci-ed  to  each  other. 

Wlien  his  wife  died  there  was  nothing  living  that  he 
loved.  Even  the  child  she  left  seemed  a  stranger  to  him 
until  years  had  passed  and  her  pretty  ways  began  to  re- 
call her  whom  he  still  movirned.  Added  to  these  circum- 
stances was  the  duty  imposed  upon  him  by  his  brother's 
will.  It  was  neither  light  nor  congenial.  Remembering 
the  aversion  with  which  the  public  mind  had  regarded 
his  intercession  in  that  brother's  behalf,  he  naturally 
expected  a  similar  sentiment  to  obstruct  the  execution 
of  his  dying  wish.  The  difficulties  in  the  way  seemed 
insuperable.  He  would  have  shirked  his  duty  could  he 
have  done  so  with  honor.  But  honor  was  his  king,  and 
his  love  for  the  dead  brother  was  intense.  He  had 
brought  from  Mallowbanks  the  books  of  the  student  re- 
cluse, which  he  had  been  especially  requested  to  keep 
for  himself  The  shelves  of  his  library  groaned  under 
them.    Through  them  he  still  communed  with  the  gentle 


250  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

spirit  who  had  loved  them.  His  own  estate  would  not 
at  that  time  have  sufficed  to  discharge  the  task  he  had 
undertaken.  But,  while  he  waited  in  sorrowful  seclu- 
sion, it  had  grown  many  fold  greater,  and  he  looked 
upon  this  unexpected  enrichment  as  a  token  that  he 
must  perform  to  the  letter  the  strange  trust  confided  to 
his  hands. 

By  all  these  things  he  had  been  excluded  from  the 
usual  circle  of  association,  and  therefore,  no  doubt, 
looked  with  more  equanimity  than  he  otherwise  would 
on  the  possibility  of  marriage  between  his  daughter  and 
one  not  her  equal  in  birth  or  station,  and  separated  by 
the  whole  width  of  the  world's  life  from  the  tradi- 
tions of  which  she  was  the  natural  heir.  So,  when 
the  children  played  together  as  boy  and  girl,  and  he 
thought  that  they  might  some  time  be  partners  indeed 
in  the  game  of  life,  he  said  to  himself,  "Well,  why 
not  ?"  and  then  half  thoughtlessly  brought  them  nearer 
and  nearer  by  the  strong  bonds  of  his  own  unconcealed 
affection. 

Merwyn  Hargrove  could  not  be  termed  superstitious, 
but  there  was  something  about  his  relations  .to  Martin 
Kortright  and  his  father  that  seemed  to  him  to  partake 
of  the  mysterious  to  a  degree  that  unquestionably  influ- 
enced his  conduct  not  a  little.  At  the  time  of  their  first 
unfortunate  meeting  he  had  decided  to  proceed  at  once 
to  execute  his  brother's  wish.  He  was  not  ignorant 
either  of  the  danger  to  himself  or  peril  to  his  estate 
which  such  a  course  would  entail.  Living,  he  had  no 
fear  of  the  result.  Should  he  die,  he  felt  that  in  serving 
the  interests  of  his  brother's  children  he  might  destroy 
the  inheritance  of  his  daughter.  After  much  study  he 
had  determined  to  adopt  the  very  course  that  his  brother 
had  pursued,  except  that  in  his  case,  he  would,  while  yet 
living,  select  a  trustee,  who  should  hold  a  certain  fund 
for  his  daughter  in  such  a  manner  that  the  law  could  in 


A  MOMENTOUS  QUESTION.  251 

no  event  divert  it  from  the  purpose  designed.  Casting 
about  for  one  on  whom  he  could  safely  devolve  so  deli- 
cate a  trust,  he  could  fix  upon  no  one  except  Jared 
Clarkson.  He  had  never  met  with  him  personally,  but 
from  all  that  he  had  heard  of  him  in  the  region  where 
his  name  was  a  household  word,  he  felt  that  he  could 
rely  upon  both  his  judgment  and  integrity.  It  was  well 
knoAvn  that  the  most  cautious  financier  in  the  land  had 
not  feared  to  intrust  him  with  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
dollars,  without  even  so  much  as  a  written  receipt  for 
it  to  bear  witness  of  a  transaction  then  almost  unprece- 
dented in  amount  between  private  parties.  He  seemed 
to  have  inherited  the  same  rugged  faithfulness  to  his 
plighted  word  or  implied  promise  that  Hargrove  recog- 
nized as  an  element  of  his  own  nature.  The  very  fact 
that  he  lived  up  to  his  convictions  upon  the  subject  of 
slavery  and  the  rights  of  the  Negro,  without  regard  for 
the  clamor  and  vituperation  of  others  and  in  defiance 
of  a  public  sentiment  which  regarded  any  step  toward 
the  social  equality  of  the  races  with  peculiar  horror  and 
animosity  tended,  no  doubt,  very  strongly  to  strengthen 
the  conviction  of  his  especial  fitness  for  this  trust.  At 
that  time,  as  we  have  seen,  Hargrove  had  no  sympathy 
with  Clarkson's  convictions  upon  this  subject,  but  only 
by  accident  had  found  himself  charged  with  a  duty  that 
seemed  in  harmony  with  them.  Negro  slavery  as  an  in- 
stitution seemed  to  him  less  dangerous  than  negro 
liberty.  He  was  not  in  favor  of  emancipation  from  any 
point  of  view.  He  was  simply  an  instrument  of  an- 
other's will.  He  could  not  but  recognize  the  fact,  how- 
ever, that  faithfulness  to  conviction  was  but  another 
name  for  duty,  and  that  one  who  did  not  shrink  from 
obloquy  in  the  advocacy  of  political  principle  was  most 
likely  to  perform  a  private  trust.  Knowing  that  Kort- 
right  was  familiar  with  his  character  and  history,  it  had 
been  the  purpose  of  his  Christma^s  visit  to  Paradise  Bay 


253  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

to  make  more  specific  inquiries  iu  regard  to  Clarksou, 
Kortright's  sturdy  independence,  thorough  integrity  and 
the  boldness  and  practicahty  of  liis  sclierae  to  render 
tributary  to  his  will  the  unused  waterfall  in  which  both 
had  an  interest,  had  turned  him  from  his  purpose,  and 
it  flashed  upon  him  like  an  inspiration  that  here,  in  his 
very  presence,  was  the  man  for  whom  he  had  been  seek- 
ing— a  man  whom  no  difficulty  could  daunt  from  a  task 
once  undertaken,  and  whom  no  temptation  could  swerve 
from  the  path  of  rectitude. 

The  plan  Kortright  had  conceived  was  a  bold  one.  At 
some  period  in  the  remote  past  the  brawling  mountain 
torrent,  on  its  northward  way  to  the  MohaAvk,  after  pass- 
ing through  a  level  valley  where  the  hills  retreating  on 
either  side  left  wide  stretches  of  fertile  bottom  lands, 
had  met  across  its  pathway  a  rugged  chain  of  granite- 
founded  hills.  Through  these  it  had  wound  in  a  narrow, 
tortuous  passage,  till  at  length  it  burst  tlu'ough  a  last 
stul)boi'n  ledge  and  tumbled  foaming  and  raging  to  the 
plain  beneath,  thence  to  pursue  its  way  unheeded  to  the 
wider  channel  which  it  sought.  It  was  traditionary 
lore .  among  the  Indians  that  the  level  region  to  the 
southwestward  had  once  been  a  lake  of  several  hundred 
acres  in  extent,  before  the  Great  Spirit  had  cleft  a  pas- 
sage for  the  pent-up  waters  through  the  hills.  The  fall 
had  been  utilized  to  turn  a  grist-mill  almost  ever  since 
the  white  man's  occupancy.  There  was  a  tradition  that 
the  stones  first  used  in  it  had  been  brought  from  Massa- 
chusetts slung  across  a  horse,  supported  by  a  pack- 
saddle  specially  devised  by  the  enterprising  pioneer  mil- 
ler for  that  purpose.  It  seems  an  almost  incredible 
tale,  but  when  one  has  looked  upon  one  of  the  veritable 
stones  themselves,  or  what  the  "  picker"  has  left  thereof, 
as  vouched  for  b}^  tradition  among  those  whose  feet  have 
trodden  upon  it  year  by  year  since  its  grinding  days 
were  over,  and  has  noticed  what  a  tiny  thing  it  was  be- 


A  MOMENTOUS  QUESTION.  251) 

side  the  great  burr-stones  tlaat  crush  our  modern  liar^ 
vest,  he  begins  to  grow  more  credulous.  And  wlien  lie 
looks  upon  a  letter  in  which  this  sturdy  pioneer  recounts 
his  experience  with  the  twain  millstones  and  the  gray 
horse,  whose  strength  he  had  wrongfully  misdoubted 
at  the  first,  as  they  picked  their  way  with  difficulty 
through  the  Blankshire  hills  to  the  little  settlement  whose 
need  he  aspired  to  supply,  doubt  vanishes.  Without 
such  "sensible  and  true  avouch"  the  writer  hereof  had 
never  credited  the  story  which  he  tells. 

This  mill,  together  with  the  lands  above,  had  come 
into  Hargrove's  hands  in  the  manner  before  described. 
Kortright's  plan  M^as  to  i-ebuild  the  barrier  and  re-cre^ 
ate  the  lake.  The  task  was  not  one  that  would  be 
called  stupendous  at  this  day,  but  it  was  bold  enough 
to  make  most  men  of  that  time  hesitate.  As  to  its 
results,  when  once  accomplished,  there  could  be  no  doubt. 
The  supply  of  water  and  the  resulting  power  would  be 
practically  unlimited.  That  this  man  of  mature  yearn 
should  have  had  the  self-control  to  nourish  this  idea  in 
secret,  with  hardly  the  remotest  prospect  of  its  final  ac- 
complishment, marked  him,  to  Hargrove's  mind,  as  ih 
some  sort  extraordinary.  To  Kortright  himself  the  won- 
der always  was  that  he  revealed  his  secret  at  all.  Only 
the  enfeeblement  of  disease,  he  mournfully  asserted,  could 
have  so  weakened  his  resolution  as  to  have  induced  him 
to  complain  of  disappointment  or  condescend  to  ask  for 
aid. 

The  result  of  the  confidence  Hargrove  had  been  thus 
strangely  led  to  bestow  upon  Squire  Kortright  had  in- 
clined him  still  more  to  the  son.  It  was  not  the  father's 
success,  but  the  power  to  succeed  in  so  difficult  an  un- 
dertaking, and  one  so  apparently  at  variance  with  the 
training  which  his  life  had  given,  that  had  year  by  year 
increased  his  respect  for  the  self-centred  man  whom 
neither  pain  nor  difficulty  could  daunt.     Xoither  ]\rartiu 


254  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

nor  Hilda  had  the  remotest  idea  of  the  strange  relation 
they  were  to  sustain  to  each  other  and  toward  the 
l)rosperous  enterprise  that  had  transformed  Skendoah 
from  the  sleepiest  of  hamlets  into  one  of  the  world's 
most  bustling  hives.  The  blandishments  of  fortune  had 
not  changed  Harrison  Kortright.  His  nervous,  firm- 
shut  lips  were  like  a  barrier  of  iron  set  to  guard  the 
gateway  of  his  thought.  All  knew  that  he  had  pros- 
pered marvelously.  None  knew  the  secret  that  under- 
lay his  prosperity. 

The  crisis  in  his  affairs  which  Merwyn  Hargrove  had 
long  expected,  had  at  length  arisen.  The  collateral  heirs 
of  George  Eighmie  had  delayed  action  for  two  reasons. 
First,  because  of  grave  doubt  as  to  an  ultimately  favor- 
able result  to  themselves,  and,  secondly,  because  they 
were  advised  that,  as  the  word  "heirs  "  was  not  in  the 
will,  the  property  would  revert  to  them  in  case  of  the 
death  of  Hargrove  before  converting  or  consuming  the 
estate.  As  his  fortune,  outside  of  what  he  had  inherited 
from  his  testator,  was  ample  to  satisfy  all  claims  against 
him  for  rents  and  pi'ofits,  should  he  be  adjudged  to  have 
held  the  estate  wrongfully,  it  was  believed  that  the 
wiser  course  was  to  allow  matters  to  remain  pretty 
much  in  statu  qiio  until  he  should  make  some  further 
attempt  to  carry  out  what  was  believed  to  be  the  secret 
understanding  with  George  Eighmie.  B}'^  some  means 
or  other  the  impression  had  gotten  abroad  that  this  was 
about  to  be  done.  The  collateral  heirs  were  moving. 
The  case  of  "Sherwood  Eighmie  etal.  vs.  Merwyn  Har- 
grove, as  executor,  and  Merwyn  Hargrove  individually," 
had  been  instituted  and  was  being  pressed.  Matthew 
Bartlemy  did  not  fear  the  action  against  his  client  as 
executor,  but  the  designation  served  to  give  the  plain- 
tiffs a  place  in  court  and  to  justify  a  continuance  from 
term  to  term  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  personal  sei'vico 
of  process.     His  opponents  were  right.     The  time  had 


A  MOMENTOUS  QUESTION.  255 

come  when  Merwyn  Hargrove  had  at  length  decided 
to  perform,  without  further  delay,  the  trust  his  brother 
had  laid  upon  him.  The  son  of  the  man  to  whom 
he  had  intrusted  her  dower  had  come  to  ask  the  hand  of 
his  daughter.  Had  the  trust  he  had  bestowed  upon  the 
father  only  prefigured  the  greater  confidence  he  must 
now  extend  to  the  son?  The  whole  household  had  long 
regarded  him  as  heir-apparent  to  the  daughter's  love, 
as  he  had  already  become  her  partner  in  the  father's 
confidence — all  save  Lida,  who,  with  the  inconsistency 
of  a  jealous  nature,  had  long  regarded  him  with  an  aver- 
sion that  had  finally  extended  to  his  parents.  Since 
Hilda  had  been  at  the  seminary,  her  distrust  of  Har- 
grove had  returned  also,  and  she  had  more  than  once 
absented  herself  from  his  house  for  considerable  periods 
of  time.  On  such  occasions,  Jared  Clarkson,  whose  faith 
in  Hargrove's  sincerity  had  become  almost  as  strong  as 
his  pride  in  his  own  honesty,  had  generally  managed  to 
inform  him  of  her  whereabouts  in  order  to  remove  any 
apprehension  as  to  her  safety.  He  did  this  all  the  more 
easily  because  of  his  connection  with  those  organized 
enemies  of  slavery — or  more  properly,  perhaps,  friends 
of  freedom — whose  joint  efforts  to  promote  the  escape  of 
fugitives  from  slavery  constituted  what  was  quaintly 
known  as  the  "  Underground  Eailroad,"  an  institution 
the  importance  of  which,  as  an  element  in  the  great 
movement  of  the  time,  has  perhaps  been  somewhat  mag- 
nified by  the  many  startling  incidents  connected  with  its 
operation. 

Martin  Kortright  had  come  to  the  verge  of  manhood, 
never  doubting  his  father's  kindness  or  his  mother's 
love.  He  had  seen  himself  transferred  to  college  after 
his  course  at  Eockboro'  Academy ;  had  rejoiced  at  his 
mother's  pride  in  his  progress  and  success,  but  was  pro- 
foundly ignorant  of  any  plans  that  might  have  l)een 
made  as  to  his  future  life.     His  father  was  one  of  those 


256  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

men  who  cannot  yield  their  confidence  to  any  one  ex- 
cept under  an  irresistible  compulsion.  No  hint  of  his 
jDurposes  as  to  his  son  had  ever  reached  the  boy's  ear. 
With  the  natural  instinct  of  the  American  youth  for 
self-direction,  therefore,,  he  had  laid  out  for  himself  a 
path  in  life  and  a  part  in  the  world's  great  conflict 
that  accorded  strictly  with  the  influences  and  ideas 
of  the  time  in  which  he  lived.  Neither  the  quiet  life 
of  Sturmhold  nor  the  bustle  of  Skendoah's  restless  wheels 
and  hammers  altogether  suited  him.  He  did  not  realize 
the  suftering  of  which  the  former  was  the  mellow  fruit- 
age, or  the  deeper  life  that  underlay  the  latter.  The 
world's  thoughts  had  entered  into  his  heart,  and  it 
throbbed  with  a  wild  desire  to  do  some  great  thing  for 
humanity — for  liberty — for  the  right.  His  love  for  Hilda, 
instead  of  being  a  check,  was  only  a  spur  to  this  desire. 
He  loved  her  so  well  that  he  was  even  willing  to  die 
in  order  to  be  worthy  of  her.  Everything  was  to  him  an 
impulse  toward  the  heroic.  His  father's  stoicism  ;  his 
mother's  half-secret  bursts  of  efllisive  love  ;  Hilda's  un- 
doubting  confidence  in  the  presage  of  greatness  that  he 
felt  within  ;  even  the  quiet  and  apparently  insignificant 
life  of  Mr.  Hargrove — all  were  to  him  unresting  impulses 
to  do.  The  spirit  of  the  unfailing  succession  of  inborn 
knights-errant  was  upon  him  and  would  not  let  him  rest 
content  with  what  others  had  done.  Rose-leaves  were 
not  soft  enough  for  his  limbs  to  rest  upon.  Only  laurels, 
plucked  by  his  own  hand  on  the  rugged  heights  where 
fame  and  valor  alone  may  come,  could  satisfy  his  soul. 

So,  as  he  sat  opposite  the  grave,  quiet  man,  in 
whose  beard  the  threads  of  silver  were  showing  more 
and  more  with  each  recurrent  year,  his  thought  was 
busy  with  the  future— his  future — the  world's  future — 
when  he  should  help  to  shape  its  destiny.  His  flushed 
face,  swelling  nostril  and  lips,  close  shut  yet  tremulous, 
told  of  an   unusual  excitement.     The   man  noted    his 


A  MOMENTOUS  QUESTION.  257 

excitement,  and  not  doubting  as  to  its  cause,  was  well 
pleased  to  see  this  boy-suitor  for  liis  davighter's  love  so 
impressed  with  the  importance  of  what  he  had  come  to 
ask.  He  had  half  feared  that  the  love  that  Martin  had 
professed  was  rather  a  matter  of  course — a  something- 
born  of  propinquity  and  the  habit  of  years  rather  than 
the  absorbing  and  self-forgetful  passion  that  sways  and 
dominates  a  life  once  for  all.  Kow  there  could  be  no 
further  doubt.  The  face  of  the  young  man  plead  for 
him  with  the  father's  heart,  and  before  his  lips  were 
opened  his  cause  was  won.  Very  kind  was  his  tone, 
and  his  countenance  invited  the  utmost  confidence  as  he 
asked  : 

"Well,  Martin,  what  is  it  that  brings  you  back  from 
college  so  unexpectedly  ?" 

He  knew,  of  course,  but  it  would  not  do  to  betray  his 
knowledge.  He  wondered  in  what  words  the  young  man 
would  clothe  the  announcement  that  had  been  so  simple- 
made  by  the  daughter,  who  had  never  learned  to  doubt 
either  her  father's  love  or  his  wisdom.  There  would  be  a 
turbulent  storm  of  words,  he  did  not  doubt,  when  love 
broke  through  that  painful  restraint  which  the  young- 
man  had  put  upon  himself.  For  this  he, was  prepared, 
but  he  was  not  prepared  for  the  words  that  accompanied 
the  look  of  pain  and  entreaty  which  overspread  Martin's 
face  as  he  said,  in  tones  that  quivered  with  sorrow  and 
apprehension : 

''  Mr.  Hargrove,  do  you  believe  slavery  is  right  V' 


CHAPTEE   XX. 

"he  that  is  to  be." 

"What  ?"  exclaimed  Hargrove,  in  amazement. 

"Do  you  believe  that  slavery  is  right?"  repeated 
Martin,  with  a  look  of  anxious  entreaty  in  his  eyes. 

"Martin  Kortright,"  said  Hargrove,  leaning  forward 
and  peering  anxiously  into  his  face,  "  are  you  crazy  ?" 

"No,  indeed,  sir ;  but  I  am  in  earnest." 

"So  it  seems." 

A  smile  that  might  have  been  pitying  or  scornful  crept 
about  the  corners  of  Hargrove's  mouth  as  he  spoke. 

"I  came  only  to  ask  that  one  question,"  said  the 
young  man,  with  tremulous  eagerness. 

"  Indeed  ?    All  the  way  from  your  college  ?" 

"No;  from  Skendoah." 

"  Ten  miles  for  one  question  !  What  a  pity  !  Why 
did  you  not  prepare  a  longer  catechism  ?" 

The  sneer  was  too  apparent  to  be  unheeded  even  bj^ 
the  preoccupied  mind  of  the  young  man.  He  started 
like  one  suddenly  awakened,  and  looking  at  the  man  be- 
fore him  saw  his  eyes  flashing  and  his  lips  quivering 
with  suppressed  anger. 

"I — I  hope,"  he  stammered,  "that  you  are  not  of- 
fended ?" 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  said  the  other;  "I  am  delighted. 
Such  diligence  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  is  very  com- 
mendable.     My  daughter,  I  am  sure,  will  be  charmed." 

"  You  have  heard  from  Hilda  then?"  asked  Martin, 
while  an  ingenuous  blush  overspread  his  countenance. 
358 


'' HE  THAT  18  TO  be:'  259 

"  I  received  a  letter  from  my  daughter  this  morning," 
said  Hargrove,  coldly.  "By  the  way,"  he  added,  turn- 
ing over  some  papers,  and  handing  Martin's  letter  to 
him,  "she  enclosed  me  this.  As  you  have  apparently 
forgotten  all  about  it,  I  may  as  well  give  it  to  you  now, 
and  save  her  the  trouble  of  mailing  it." 

"You — you — do  not  approve  of  it  then?"  said  Mar- 
tin. A  sudden  pallor  succeeded  the  flush  upon  his  face. 
The  words  seemed  to  choke  him  as  they  came  forth. 
He  took  the  letter  as  he  spoke,  and  sat  looking  at  the 
other  with  a  sort  of  dull,  hopeless  agony  in  his  eyes. 

"  Oh,  about  slavery  ?"  said  Hargrove,  lightly.  "  Well, 
I  don't  know.  You  seem  to  consider  my  opinion  upon 
this  question  of  great  moment." 

"It  is  of  the  utmost  possible  importance  to  me,  you 
maybe  sure,  sir,"  answered  Mai'tin,  choking  down  the 
emotion  that  threatened  to  overcome  him,  "  or  I  would 
never  have  troubled  you  with  the  inquiry." 

"Xo  doubt  you  think  so,  sir,"  said  Hargrove,  rising 
in  uncontrollable  anger,  "There  seems  to  be  no  bound 
to  your  assurance.  The  fact  that  you  were  seeking 
covertly  to  win  my  daughter's  love  you  no  doubt  thought 
gave  you  an  unquestionable  right  to  catechise  her  father. 
You  need  not  have  any  further  anxiety,  sir.  Your  re- 
lations with  her  are  ended,  and  my  opinion  upon  any 
subject  can  be  of  no  further  moment  to  you.  I  bid  you 
good  morning,  sir." 

Hargrove  bowed  with  mock  politeness,  and  waved  his 
hand  toward  the  door  as  he  spoke.  Martin  had  risen, 
too,  and  stood  gazing  at  the  master  of  Sturmhold  with 
a  look  in  which  surprise  and  pain  were  blended. 

"I  do  not  understand,  Mr.  Hargrove,"  he  said,  with 
quiet  dignity,  "in  what  I  have  been  so  unfortunate  as 
to  offend.  I  did  love  your  daughter,  and  always  must. 
I  did  not  suppose  that  you  were  ignorant  of  the  fact, 
though  I  liad   only  lately  found  it  out.      I  wrote  her 


260  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

frankly  in  regard  to  it,  and  had  no  doubt  she  would  con- 
sult you.     If  I  did  wrong,  I  did  not  know  it." 

"  But  you  made  the  mistake  of  not  first  inquiring  fully 
what  were  my  views  on  the  slavery  question,"  sneered 
Hargrove. 

"My  inquiry  had  no  connection  with  your  daughter, 
or  my  love  for  her,"  responded  Martin. 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  Hargrove.  "Am  I  to  under- 
stand that  you  would  have  condescended  to  acknowledge 
a  father-in-law  whose  views  upon  that  question  were  not 
entirely  sound  ?    I  am  sure  I  am  very  much  obliged." 

"  Captain  Hargrove,"  said  the  young  man,  straighten- 
ing himself  up  until  his  eyes  flashed  proudly  into  the 
flaming  orbs  before  him.  "I  do  not  understand  your 
allusions,  but  it  is  evident  that  I  have  made  you  angry. 
Allow  me  to  say,  however,  that  my  relation  to  Hil — to 
your  daughter— did  not  in  the  least  affect  my  interest  in 
the  question  I  asked.  If  there  is  any  reason  why  I 
ought  not  to  press  it,  of  course  I  will  not,  but  it  is  still 
a  matter  of  vital  interest  to  me — perhaps  all  the  moi-e 
that  you  regard  my  love  for — for  Hilda  as  a  matter  of 
presumption." 

Hargrove  looked  at  him  in  amazement. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  still  desire  to  know 
whether  I  consider  slavery  morally  right '?" 

"  I  do,  indeed,  sir." 

Hargrove's  brow  relaxed  as  he  gazed  upon  the  sad 
but  earnest  face  before  him,  and  unconsciously  his  tones 
softened  somewhat  as  he  inquired  : 

"Will  you  please  tell  me  how  my  opinion  upon  this 
political  question  can  be  of  any  interest  or  importance 
to  you  now  ?" 

"If  you  will  allow  me  to  ex})lain,  sir,  you  will  easily 
see.  I  came  home  last  night  to  ask  my  parents'  permis- 
sion, or,  perhaps  more  truly,  to  inform  them  of  my  de- 
termination, to  do  a  certain  thing.     Both  opposed  my 


"i/A'  THAT  m  TO  be:'  2(Jl 

wish,  and  my  father  especially  forbade  it,  giving  as  his 
reason  that  you  were  in  favor  of  slavery,  and  that  our 
relations  to  you  were  such  as  to  forbid  my  doing  any- 
thing that  might  displease  you." 

"It  is  natural  that  they  should  consider  conduct  that 
would  be  displeasing  to  me  inconsistent  with  your  posi- 
tion as  my  daughter's  lover." 

"But  they  had  no  knowledge  of— of  any  such  thing." 

"  Did  they  not  know  you  had  written  that  letter  ?" 

"They  did  not." 

"  Nor  that  you  intended  doing  so  ?" 

"Nothing  of  the  kind." 

"Indeed.  Then  I  do  not  see  how  my  opinions  be- 
came important." 

"My  father  said  we  were  under  obligations  of  no 
common  character  to  you." 

"  Of  course  he  explained  their  nature  and  extent?" 
Hargrove  smiled  sarcastically. 

"He  did  not." 

Hargrove's  smile  deepened  to  a  sneer  as  he  said  : 

"  And  you  did  not  ask  him  ?" 

"I  did  not,"  said  Martin,  with  something  of  pride- in 
his  tone.  "I  know  it  is  useless  to  ask  my  father  what 
he  does  not  choose  to  tell." 

"That  is  true;  that  is  true,"  mused  Hargrove. 
"  Then  you  do  not  know  to  what  he  referred  ?" 

"  I  only  guess  that  you  assisted  him  in  his  enterprises. 
I  remember  that  he  was  only  a  well-to-do  farmer.  I  know 
that  he  is  now  a  rich  manufacturer,"  answered  Martin. 

"  Yes,"  said  Hargrove  meditatively  turning  away  for 
a  moment,  only  to  come  back  for  a  still  sharper  cate- 
chism of  the  young  man,  who  stood  as  if  dazed  by  the 
unexpected  turn  the  conversation  had  taken.  "  But 
you  knew,  sir,"  and  he  shook  his  finger  at  Martin  angrily 
as  he  spoke,  "  you  knew  the  relation  you  desired  to  sus- 
tain to  Hilda," 


262  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

"Of  course,"  simply. 

"And  you  thought  Hilda  would  disapprove?"  asked 
Hargrove  eagerly,  "  or  you  feared  to  offend  her  father  ?" 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  Martin  blushing  and  stammer- 
ing, " I  am  afraid  I  did  not  think  of  her  at  all." 

"  You  did  not  ?  I  declare,  you  are  a  singular  mortal. 
With  the  ink  of  the  letter  declaring  your  love,  hardly 
dry,  you  forget  her  existence  when  deciding  a  matter  so 
important  that  you  call  it  vital.  Pray  what  did  you 
think  of?" 

"  I  tried  to  determine  my  duty." 

"  Oh,  it  is  a  question  of  conscience,  then.  You  never 
thought  Hilda  might  have  a  conscience  too  ?" 

"  I  should  doubt  my  own  if  hers  did  not  approve." 

"  But  you  took  her  approval  for  granted  ?" 

"  I  should  not  have  been  worthy  of  her  love  if  I  could 
have  doubted  her  approval  of  the  right." 

"You  were  right,  too;  just  right,"  said  Hargrove, 
with  sudden  heartiness,  "a  true  woman's  heart  never 
indorses  what  is  wrong.  But  will  you  tell  me  now  why 
my  opinion  became  important  in  the  settlement  of  this 
question  of  conscience  ?" 

"  What  I  wished  to  do  would  probably  be  displeasing 
to  one  who  believes  slavery  to  be  right." 

"Well?" 

"If  you  disapproved  I  had  determined  to  abandon 
my  project." 

"For  your  father's  sake  ?" 

"Because  I  would  not  offend  one  whose  feelings  he 
felt  himself  under  such  obligation  to  consider." 

"So,  if  I  were  your  father's  creditor  you  would  cut 
your  opinions  to  suit  my  notions  ?" 

"  jSTo  ;  but  if  you  had  done  my  father  a  great  favor  I 
Avould  not  express  opinions  that  would  be  displeasing  to 
you,  if  I  could  avoid  it  without  loss  of  self-respect." 

"  Oh !  this  is  one  of  those  questions  of  conscience 


''HE  THAT  LS  TO  BE:'  263 

that  are  binding  at  one  time  and  not  at  another.  I  de- 
clare you  are  becoming  quite  a  Jesuit." 

"Not  at  all,  sir,"  said  Martin  simply.  "The  ques- 
tion for  my  conscience  was  not  whether  the  act  itself 
was  right.  That  I  had  already  settled.  The  question 
that  remained  was  whether  it  was  my  duty  to  do  it  or 
not." 

"And  you  decided —  ?" 

"That  if  it  would  occasion  vou  annoyance  I  must 
leave  it  to  others  ?" 

"And  that  is  still  your  purpose  ?" 

"It  is." 

Hargrove  paced  the  room  for  a  moment  with  his  head 
bowed  in  thought.  Then  he  came  back  and  said  in  a 
tone  very  difterent  from  what  he  had  used  before  : 

"Pray  be  seated  again  and  tell  me  what  is  this  thing 
you  wish  to  do  that  might  offend  me  as  a  pro-slavery 
man.  I  hope  you  do  not  wish  to  preach  a  new  Aboli- 
tion crusade.  I  was  afraid  that  Jared  Clarkson's  influ- 
ence would  turn  your  head,  but  I  thought  you  had 
too  much  common  sense  to  become  clean  daft  on  the 
subject.  You  must  remember  that  what  is  tolerated  as 
a  harmless  absurdity  in  a  man  of  his  peculiar  tempera- 
ment, becomes  altogether  a  difterent  thing  in  one  not 
blessed  with  his  idiosyncrasies.  He  does  and  says  a 
thousand  things  which  would  not  be  tolerated  for  a  mo- 
ment in  another.  It  is  not  because  he  is  less  sincere,  or 
is  so  regarded  by  others,  but  only  because  he  is  in  every 
respect  exceptional,  peculiar — eccentric,  as  it  is  termed. 
Whatever  is  pronounced  and  striking  in  his  opinions  or 
unusual  in  his  conduct,  therefore,  is  accepted  as  a  legiti- 
mate outgrowth  of  this  eccentricity.  Of  all  the  men 
who  agree  with  him  in  regard  to  slavery,  he  is  allowed 
the  most  license  and  regarded  with  the  most  toler- 
ance, not  because  he  is  more  deserving  or  more  con- 
sistent than  the  others,  but  because  of  his  eccentricity. 


264  HOr  rLOWSlIARE^. 

Such  a  man  is  very  apt  to  charm  the  fancy,  but  is 
always  dangerous  to  follow.  What  he  may  do  with 
impunity,  it  would  be  ruin  for  others  to  attempt.  He 
is  no  more  of  an  Abolitionist  than  your  father  ;  indeed, 
not  as  much,  since  your  father,  having  once  reached 
a  conclusion,  would  accept  all  its  consequences,  no  mat- 
ter how  terrible.  Clarkson,  with  all  his  hatred  of  sla- 
very and  all  his  willingness  to  cripple  and  destroy  it, 
yet  shrinks  in  horror  from  the  bloodshed  that  would 
inevitably  attend  any  attempt  to  carry  his  pet  ideas  into 
effect.  He  is  a  good  man,  a  sincere  and  kindly  gentle- 
man, but  not  one  who  is  fit  to  lead,  nor  indeed  one  whom 
it  is  safe  to  follow." 

"Yet  he  is  one  of  the  leaders  of  public  thought,"  said 
Martin. 

"I^ot  one  of  its  leaders,  but  one  of  its  mouthpieces. 
He  is  one  of  the  exponents  of  an  idea  that  just  now 
dominates  the  public  attention.  The  leaders  of  public 
thought  are  men  of  an  entirely  difterent  mould." 

"The  leader  must  be  exceptional  and  is  often  ac- 
counted eccentric,  is  he  not  ?" 

"Undoubtedly.  'He  hath  a  devil,'  was  the  popular 
verdict  as  to  the  Christ.  John  the  Baptist,  Peter  Her- 
mit and  a  thousand  others,  whose  woi'ds,  translated  into 
deeds,  have  shaken  the  world,  were  no  doubt  eccentric 
to  the  very  limit  of  what  we  call  sanity.  They  Avere 
men  of  one  idea,  which  they  followed  to  the  exclusion  of 
all  others.  They  were  men  whose  souls  could  feel  but 
one  emotion.  The  intensity  of  their  one  thought  shriv- 
eled all  others  like  a  furnace-blast.  They  were  of  the 
'  Leave-all-thou-hast-and-follow-me '  type  of  the  excep- 
tional. They  repeated  one  cry  until  the  world  heard 
and  believed.  They  had  no  time  for  argument,  expostu- 
lation or  entreaty.  From  the  means  to  the  end  Avas  only 
a  step  to  them.  All  between  Avas  a  desert.  Objections, 
excuses,  fair  promises,  everything  between  them  and  the 


''HE  THAT  IIS  TO  BE:'  265 

result  which  their  intensity  made  not  only  possible  but 
real,  was  as  stubble  before  the  flame  that  burned  within 
them.  The  pioneer  is  always  one  who  gives  his  marrow 
to  light  the  lamp  that  shows  the  way — a  man  whose 
mind  is  perhaps  only  large  enough  to  grasp  one  phase 
of  a  single  thought.  Such  are  they  whom  the  world 
follows.  Others  come  after  them,  expound,  amplify, 
reduce  everything  to  due  proportions  and  set  up  the 
thought  the  leader  brought  to  light  in  its  proper  place 
in  the  temple  of  human  life.  The  few  mark  eras  ;  the 
many  make  history." 

"Whom  then  do  you  consider  the  true  leader  of  the 
anti-slavery  movement  ?" 

"I  do  not  know  that  it  has  one.  The  real  leader — 
the  pathfinder  of  human  thought — is  one  that  never 
doubts.  The  end  he  seeks  is  always  clear  before  him, 
and  he  goes  straight  to  it,  over  whatever  obstacles  may 
lie  between.  He  may  not  reach  his  goal — rarely  does — but 
he  shows  the  way  to  others,  who  clear  the  undergrowth, 
level  the  hills,  fill  up  the  valleys  and  complete  the  thor- 
oughfare that  leads  to  the  terminus  of  his  inspiration. 
But  I  hope  you  do  not  aspire  to  be  such  a  leader  ?" 

"No  indeed.  I  only  hoped  to  be  a  very  humble  fol- 
lower," said  Martin,  resignedly. 

"You  need  not  sigh.  The  lot  of  a  leader  is  not  an 
enviable  one.  He  who  swerves  humanity  from  the 
beaten  rut  must  generally  stand  alone.  Now  and  then 
there  comes  one  of  such  deft  and  subtle  power  as  to 
flex  almost  without  its  knowledge  the  world's  life. 
He  switches  the  train  of  thought  from  its  accustomed 
track  at  so  slight  an  angle  that  it  is  hardly  per- 
ceived until  the  space  between  grows  to  be  a  yawning, 
impassable  gulf  Such  a  man  is  never  thought  of  as  a 
leader  at  the  time  he  does  his  work.  The  world  looks 
back  on  him  afterward  and  wonders  that  his  power  was 
not  recognized  before.     Such  a  man  must  always  come 


266  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

from  the  ranks.  He  must  be  of  the  people,  and  only 
think  their  thoughts  more  clearly  than  they.  He  must 
translate  into  words  and  deeds  what  the  dullest  and 
meanest  dimly  feels.  Iso  high-bred  masquerader  in 
familiar  garb  can  ever  win  the  place,  save  by  renuncia- 
tion of  his  birthright  and  a  consecration  by  the  laying 
on  of  persecuting  hands." 

"  But  a  man  cannot  be  a  leader  who  is  not  recognized 
as  such  by  his  followers." 

"That  is  the  very  mistake  that  is  usually  made  by 
those  who  desire  to  be  leaders.  They  are  not  his  fol- 
lowers. They  are  simply  the  creatures  of  the  idea  that 
animates  his  life.  The  real  leader — he  who  shows  a 
new  pathway  of  progress — is  more  frequently  consid- 
ered an  obstructionist  in  his  day.  He  stands  squarely 
across  the  old  way  and  compels  human  thought  to 
take  a  new  road.  He  will  not  let  the  world  go  on  in 
peace.  He  may  be  trampled  down  by  the  blind  herd 
behind,  but  his  stiffeuing  finger  will  point  the  new  path- 
way which  the  feet  of  those  who  come  after  must  fol- 
low." 

"  But  if  Mr.  Clarkson  is  not  a  leader  Avhat  would  you 
term  him  ?    He  certainly  seeks  new  ways." 

"Yes,  he  is  an  experimenter — one  who  makes  trial  of 
new  ideas  for  the  benefit  of  others.  He  is  one  of  that 
more  numerous  class  who  benefit  mankind  chiefly  by 
demonstrating  how  great  things  can  not  be  done.  They 
are  the  skirmishers  who  skirt  the  flanks  of  the  army 
of  progress  and  develop  the  obstacles  that  lie  before  it. 
They  draw  the  fire  of  the  enemy  ;  unmask  his  batteries ; 
make  him  define  his  position  ;  show  the  path  the  for- 
lorn hope  must  take,  and  what  must  be  overcome  when 
the  grand  assault  is  made.  Their  fusilade  attracts  at- 
tention because  the  world  is  still.  The  rattle  and  flash 
of  their  fire  thrills  the  heart  of  every  one  that  listens 
to  the  mimic  contests  of  the  outposts ;  but  when  the 


''HE  THAT  IS  TO  BE:'  267 

army  advances  along  the  whole  line,  they  will  be  drowned 
in  the  roar  of  the  conflict,  and  when  it  is  over  will  be 
almost  forgotten.  The  work  of  such  men  is  no  less 
valuable  than  that  of  the  greatest ;  but  it  is  subordinate 
thereto  and  has  no  independent,  permanent  result.  Such 
men  are  doomed  to  double  misconception.  At  one  time 
they  are  thrust  into  undue  prominence  and  at  another 
lost  in  undeserved  obscurity.  The  scout  is  rarely  a  gene- 
ral. The  partisan  ranger's  work  is  brilliant  and  romantic, 
but  is  not  the  sort  of  work  that  wins  battles  and  achieves 
results." 

"  You  think  Mr.  Clarkson  a  political  ranger  ?" 
"  Undoubtedly.  He  desires  the  abolition  of  slavery. 
He  thinks  it  essential  to  national  peace  and  prosperity, 
as  well  as  due  to  justice  and  humanity.  Across  the  road 
that  leads  to  this  result  he  finds  an  enemy,  organized, 
alert,  and,  it  would  seem,  impregnably  entrenched. 
What  does  he  do  ?  Does  he  lay  down  the  grand  strate- 
gic lines  ?  Does  he  mass  the  forces  at  his  back  and  de- 
termine to  carry  the  position  at  all  hazards  ?  Not  at  all. 
He  seeks  for  some  weak  point  in  the  enemy's  line.  He 
dashes  along  his  front ;  tries  to  turn  his  flanks  ;  annoys 
him  with  unexpected  attacks ;  makes  brilliant  dashes  and 
quick  retreats  ;  fires  colored  rockets  ;  explodes  harmless 
mines ;  in  short,  does  the  work  of  scout  and  skirmisher 
for  the  general  who  shall  finally  direct  the  campaign. 
That  is  what  Mr.  Clarkson 's  work  will  be  if  the  Anti- 
Slavery  movement  ever  ripens  into  an  organized  aggres- 
sive force,  successfully  directed  to  the  accomplishment 
of  a  specific  purpose.  I  very  much  doubt  if  that  time 
will -ever  arrive  or  that  leader  will  ever  appear." 

Hargrove  resumed  his  meditative  walk  back  and  forth 
across  the  libi'ary.  He  seemed  almost  to  have  forgotten 
the  young  man's  presence,  as  he  had  apparently  forgot- 
ten the  starting-point  of  their  conversation.  He  was  un- 
burdening himself  of  thought  which  long  study  and  close 


268  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

observation  of  the  men  and  events  of  his  time  had  forced 
upon  him  in  his  semi-isolation.  Untouched  by  faction  ; 
remote  from  tlie  conflict  of  parties  ;  almost  equally  at 
variance  with  every  phase  of  the  prevailing  political 
thought  of  his  day,  yet  bound  by  an  infrangible  chain 
of  events  to  that  institution  whose  continuance  or  de- 
struction was  the  great  question  to  be  decided  by  the 
gathering  conflict,  it  is  not  strange  that  his  views  should 
difter  from  those  of  the  partisans  who  shouted,  amid 
the  heat  of  the  struggle,  some  for  this  brilliant  political 
champion  and  some  for  that. 

"  At  any  rate,  I  think  he  deserves  to  be  called  a 
knight  and  not  a  scout,"  said  Martin,  with  a  touch  of 
pique  in  his  tone. 

"Aye,  aye,  so  he  does,"  said  Hargrove,  stopping 
shortly  and  raising  his  finger  to  enforce  his  words.  "  So 
far  as  gallantry,  devotioit  and  purity  of  heart  are  con- 
cerned, he  is  a  very  flower  of  chivalry.  But  unfortu- 
nately for  him,  perhaps,  it  is  not  knight-errantry,  it  is 
not  the  display  of  personal  prowess  and  skill  of  fence 
that  moves  the  Avorld.  The  progress  of  thought  in  a 
republic  is  the  advance  of  a  grand  army.  The  knight 
is  a  central  figure  when  the  march  begins  and  swords 
are  first  crossed  in  some  casual  affray  ;  to-morrow  he 
will  be  a  scout,  and  Avhen  some  Civsar  with  his  Tenth 
Legion,  or  Napoleon  with  his  Old  Guard  shall  have  won 
the  great  battle,  he  will  be  remembered  kindly  and 
lovingly  by  the  few  who  remember  how  well  he  did  his 
part  and  forgotten  by  the  many  in  whose  minds  his 
achievements  will  be  blended  with,  and  subordinated  to, 
the  grand  assault,  the  leader  of  which  has  not  yet  ap- 
peared and — is  not  likely  to  appear." 

"He  will  come,"  said  the  young  man,  whose  close- 
shut  lips,  flashing  eyes  and  hand  nervously  clasping  the 
back  of  the  chair  by  which  he  stood,  showed  how  his 
blood  was  stirred  by  the  thought  of  conflict,      "He  will 


''HE  THAT  IS  TO  BE:^  S69 

come !"  he  repeated  in  a  tone  that  rang  through  the 
silent  room  Uke  the  presage  of  victory. 

"So?"  said  the  other,  as  he  paused  in  his  walk  and 
looked  with  a  half  smile  upon  the  young  face  flushed 
with  enthusiasm.  "So  the  time  has  come  when  'Our 
sons  and  our  daughters  shall  prophesy, '  eh  ?  You  may 
be  right.  But  you  said  you  wished  to  be  a  follower. 
Of  whom— Clarkson  ?" 

"  No.  Kow  that  you  point  it  out,  I  see  that  he  can- 
not be  a  leader  in  the  accomplishment  of  great  events, 
I  am  sorry,  too,  for  he  is  a  splendid  type  of  man,  and, 
in  most  respects,  I  must  admit  that  I  share  his  views  in 
regard  to  slavery. " 

"  Just  so.  It  is  not  at  all  surprising  that  you  should. 
The  only  wonder  is,  that  passing  your  youth  in  the  full 
glare  of  his  manhood,  you  should  have  retained  indi- 
viduality enough  to  modify  your  indorsement  by  that 
cautious  phrase,  '  in  most  respects. '  When  the  truly 
great  man  puts  his  impress  on  such  plastic  material 
as  your  young  life  there  is  no  doubt  as  to  whose  mark  it 
is.  If  the  leader  ever  comes  you  will  follow  him  with- 
out any  'if  or  'but.'  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  you  spoke 
of  wishing  to  do  something  now.     What  was  it  ?' 

"  I  wanted  to  go  to  Kansas,  sir." 

"For  what?" 

"  To  help  the  '  Free  State  Men.'  " 

"  You  are  anxious  to  fight  the  '  Border  Rufiians ' 
then  ?" 

" I  wish  to  see  freedom  prevail." 

"  Exactly  ;  and  you  supposed  my  sympathies  might  be 
with  slavery  ?" 

"My  father  was  of  that  opinion." 

"He  could  not  have  made  a  greater  mistake." 

"What?"  exclaimed  Martin  in  surprise;  "you  think 
slavery  wrong  and  yet  own  slaves  ?" 


270  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

"■You  probably  tliink  Jared  Clarkson  very  sincere  in 
his  belief  iu  its  uurighteousness  V" 

"  Of  course  he  is.'' 

"Undoubtedly.  But  what  he  only  accepts  as  an  evil 
fact  upon  the  report  of  others,  I  know  by  my  own  ob- 
servation and  experience  to  be  infinitely  worse  than 
he  conceives.  If  I  own  slaves  it  is  because  it  is  a  hard 
thing  for  a  man  in  my  position  to  know  how  to  avoid 
one  evil  without  committing  another. ' ' 

"  Yet  you  do  not  agree  with  him." 

"  Yery  far  from  it.  He  hates  slavery,  and  adores  the 
enslaved  race.  I  hate  slavery,  and  almost  abhor  the 
Negro.  Not  that  I  have  any  ill-will  toward  him,  or 
would  treat  him  with  cruelty  or  injustice,  but  I  believe 
his  presence  among  us  is  an  unmixed  evil  to  the  white 
race.  Mr.  Clarkson  and  those  who  agree  with  liim  are 
opposed  to  slavery  for  the  sake  of  the  slave.  I  would 
destroy  it  for  the  sake  of  the  master.  The  white  race 
has  suffered  more  from  slavery  than  the  colored  people 
ever  can.  I  should  dread  their  freedom  among  us 
even  more  than  their  enslavement.  In  short,  I  am  a 
Southern  Abolitionist  as  Mr.  Clarkson  is  a  Northern 
one.  Both  are  humanitarians.  He  bestows  his  sympa- 
thy upon  the  slave ;  I  save  mine  for  the  master.  He 
would  count  his  work  ended  with  freedom  of  the  slave  ; 
I  would  not  rest  until  he  was  transformed  or  trans- 
planted. He  thinks  freedom  would  cure  all  the  ills  of 
slavery ;  I  fear  that  if  the  races  remained  together  it 
would  only  enhance  them." 

"Yet  you  prefer  colored  servants?"  said  Martin,  in 
surprise. 

"  Very  true.  Whether  it  is  the  force  of  habit  or  be- 
cause of  their  peculiar  adaptedness  to  the  servile  rela- 
tion, I  do  not  know.  Certain  it  is  that  I  do  not  like  to 
be  served  by  a  white  person." 

"Why  should  you  apprehend  evil  consequences  if  the 


' '  HE  TEA  T  IS  TO  BK  "  271 

slaves  were  freed,  and  remained  as  the  paid  servants  of 
the  white  race,  instead  ?" 

"  Because  the  two  races  can  never  commingle,  and, 
living  side  by  side  with  each  other,  jealousies  and  dis- 
sensions and  contlicts  would  be  the  least  of  the  evils  to 
be  expected.  But  that  will  never  be.  The  Negro  must 
be  removed  from  among  the  whites  or  remain  forever  a 
slave.  If  they  were  emancipated  to-morrow  by  some 
sudden  stroke,  they  would  be  reduced  to  bondage  again 
before  a  month  had  passed.  The  law  of  nature  is  an 
inflexible  one  :  that  where  two  races,  separated  by  some 
physical  barrier  that  prevents  universal  admixture  and 
unification  in  the  course  of  time,  dwell  together,  the  one 
must  rule  and  the  other  must  serve.  They  can  never 
live  equally  and  amicabl}^  together." 

"But  those  who  are  among  us  here  occasion  no  trou- 
ble," said  Martin,  with  the  imwillingness  of  a  believer 
to  abandon  his  creed. 

"  Ah,  you  misunderstand  me.  It  is  not  because  I 
think  the  ]N^egro  is  way  more  depraved  or  vicious  than 
any  other  man  at  his  stage  of  development.  It  is  not 
because  he  is  bad,  ungovernable,  or  even  incapable  that 
I  believe  this,  but  simply  because  he  is  not  white.  He 
is  separated  from  us  by  the  extremes  of  color.  Nature 
has  divided  us.  She  has  made  two  classes  that  can  never 
be  made  one.  Where  there  are  clearly  marked  divisions 
there  will  always  be  discord,  which  must  sooner  or  later 
ripen  into  conflict.  The  fact  that  such  conflict  has  not 
arisen  here  is  easily  accounted  for  by  the  very  small 
comparative  numbers  of  the  unassimilable  element." 

"  It  is  strange  how  near  you  and  Mr.  Clarkson  are  to 
each  other  in  your  conclusions,  and  yet  how  far  apart  in 
your  premises,"  said  Martin,  musingly. 

"We  agree  only  in  one  thing— the  detestation  of 
Slavery.  To  him  it  is  obnoxious,  because  of  its  injus- 
tice and  inhumanit}'  to  the  negro,  whom  he  considers  an 


273  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

equal  and  of  equal  right  with  the  white  man  ;  as  he  has  so 
often  said  :  '  prejudice  against  people  of  color  is  a  quarrel 
with  God. '  To  me  it  is  hateful,  because  it  has  brought 
the  negro  among  us,  enfeebled  and  corrupted  the  Avhite 
race,  and  cursed  the  soil  which  it  has  touched." 

"He  sees  no  danger  in  emancipation  and  3^ou  no  hope 
in  it." 

"Very  true." 

"  And  yet  you  are  both  sincere." 

"Yes.  He  shows  his  sincerity  by  taking  the  Xegro 
to  his  table  ;  I  mine  by  giving  my  fortune  to  return 
him  whence  he  came.  He  laughs  at  the  distinctions 
between  races.  I  shudder  at  the  thought  of  their  ad- 
mixture." 

"Yet  how  can  this  race,  if  naturally  servile,  weaker 
and  less  numerous  than  the  whites,  in  any  event  work 
us  harm  ?" 

"Ah,  it  is  not  the  amount,  it  is  the  character  of  the 
mischief.  It  is  the  one  fly  in  the  pot  of  ointment. 
One  drop  of  colored  blood  is  enough  to  degrade.  "What 
would  induce  you,  if  it  were  possible,  to  wear  the  in- 
signia of  that  race  ?  For  how  much  money  would  you 
consent  to  be  a  negro  or  have  in  your  veins  a  drop 
of  African  blood  ?  If  you  would  test  the  idea  of 
race-prejudice,  as  it  is  called,  that  is  the  fair  way  to 
do  it." 

"Candidly,  Mr.  Hargrove,"  said  Martin,  "I  think  I 
would  rather  die." 

"  Of  course  you  would.  It  is  not  the  Xegro's  fault. 
It  is  not  our  fault.  It  is  simply  a  fact  of  our  nature. 
Yet  every  year  that  the  races  remain  together  ten  thou- 
sand, twenty  thousand,  perhaps  a  hundred  thousand 
lives  are  cursed  with  this  ineffaceable  stigma.  Only  think 
of  it !  All  the  whippings  that  a  generation  of  slaves  can 
suffer  are  as  nothing  to  what  the  mere  suspicion  of 
such  admixture  has  brought  upon  Lida.     And  her  chil- 


''HE  THAT  IS  TO  BE.''  278 

dren — God  knows  if  any  care  can  save  them  for  genera- 
tions from  this  bliglit !" 

Martin  shuddered  and  Hargrove  resumed  his  walk  to 
and  fro  across  the  room.  Presently  he  returned,  and, 
laying  his  hand  upon  the  young  man's  shoulder,  he 
smiled  down  at  him  and  said  : 

"■  I  presume  this  has  relieved  you  of  all  fear  as  to  my 
pro-slavery  tendencies." 

"Entirely,"  said  Martin  gravely.  "Yet  I  am  by  no 
means  sure  that  you  would  approve  of  my  purpose." 

He  looked  up  inquiringly  as  he  spoke. 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Hargrove.  "Let  us  first  dis- 
pose of  the  matter  for  which  I  supposed  that  you  had 
come.     You  love  my  daughter  ?" 

"As  my  life  !"  said  the  young  man,  rising  and  gazing 
earnestly  into  the  other's  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  question  your  sincerity.  I  had  just  received 
your  letter  from  Hilda  when  you  entered  and  thought 
you  had  come  to  ask  my  sanction  of  your  suit."   , 

Martin's  eyes  fell  and  his  face  flushed. 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  done  so,  sir,"  he  said  sub- 
missively, "but  it  seemed  so  much  a  matter  of  course 
that  Hilda  and  I  should  love  each  other  that  I  never 
thought  of  any  formality." 

"Oh,  I  excuse  you  fully,  now  that  I  know  all  the 
facts.  The  young  man  of  the  North  at  best  is  not  given 
to  formalities  in  matters  of  the  heart,  and  Mars  and 
Cupid  are  poor  joint-tenants.  If  one  gets  possession  the 
other  is  sure  to  be  locked  out  for  the  time." 

"  I  did  not  forget  her,"  protested  Martin. 

"Oh,  I  understand,"  said  Hargrove;  "the  fever  of 
the  public  mind  possessed  you.  The  rage  of  battle  was 
upon  you,  and  the  very  fact  that  you  loved  made  you 
all  the  more  anxious  for  an  opportunity  to  attest  your 
manhood." 

"It  must  have  been  so."  said  Martin,  still  abashed  at 


274  HOT  PLOWSIIARKS. 

the  awkwardness  of  his  position.  "  I  hope  you  will 
pardon  what  must  have  seemed  the  most  inexcusable 
presumption." 

"It  made  me  angry,  as  you  saw,"  said  Hargrove. 
"All  the  ideas  peculiar  to  a  Southern  man  are  so  per- 
sistently misapprehended  hy  the  people  of  the  North 
that  even  they  who  desire  to  vindicate  us  are  apt  to  do 
it  upon  false  grounds.  For  myself,  I  have  been  so  gen- 
erally misunderstood  by  those  about  me  that  I  have 
become  sensitive  in  regard  to  such  questions  as  that 
which  you  so  unexpectedly  propounded." 

"Why  do  you  not  let  your  opinions  be  known  ?" 

"  Because  my  neighbors  cannot  understand  them. 
They  are  foreign  to  their  own  thought — the  sentiment 
developed  by  the  life  of  another  people.  The  inklings  I 
have  given  have  caused  me  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  kid- 
napper, if  not  as  a  pix-ate^.  Yet  I  have  freed  a  goodly 
number  of  slaves,  and  have  reason  to  believe  that  Jason 
sometimes  makes  Sturmhold  itself  a  station  on  the  '  Un- 
derground Railroad.' " 

"I  am  not  surprised  that  you  were  angry,"  said  Mar- 
tin, "but  I  hope  that  you  will  not  forbid  my  correspond- 
ence with  Hilda." 

"As  to  that,  my  son,"  said  Hargrove,  taking  his 
hand,  "I  shall  leave  you  entirely  to  Hilda's  mercy. 
"What  you  shall  be  to  each  other  you  must  yourselves  de- 
termine. She  is  worthy  of  the  Itest,  and  I  believe  you 
will  be  worthy  of  her." 

"  I  will  try,  sir,"  said  Martin  huskily. 

"  I  know  you  will,  and  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should 
not  be  as  happy  together  as  my  Rietta  and  I  were  in  the 
few  bright  years  she  Avas  mine.  Hilda  is  sensitive  and 
impulsive,  but  there  never  was  a  braver  or  more  trust- 
ful nature.  I  hope  to  see  your  children  making  Sturm- 
hold  again  as  bright  as  your  own  childish  lives  made  it 


"HE  THAT  IS  TO  BKr  275' 

but  yesterday.  1  shall  ))e  glad  to  say,  '  God  bless  you, 
my  childreu,'  when  you  eome  to  make  it  your  home." 

Hargrove  fancied  that  he  heard  a  low  moaning  sob  in 
the  hall  without..  He  released  his  hand  from  the  clasp 
of  the  young  man,  who  was  trying  to  express  his  thanks  ; 
crossed  the  room,  opened  the  door  which  was  ajar, 
looked  out,  and  then  closing  it  securel}',  walked  back  to 
the  table  and  sat  down. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  as  Martin  also  resumed  his 
seat,  "  about  Kansas." 

" I  hope  you  are  not  offended  at  my  desire  to  go." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  very  glad  you  have  it.  With 
your  views,  the  conflict  there  is  one  between  right  and 
wrong,  and  I  am  glad  that  you  Avere. willing  to  sacrifice 
your  own  ease  and  comfort  for  what  you  deem  the  right. 
You  were  a  brave  boy,  and  I  hope  you  will  be  a  brave 
man." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Martin,  blushing.  "I  could 
not  love  Hilda  and  be  anything  else." 

"  What  put  this  into  your  head  '?"' 

"  The  conversation  of  a  man  I  met  at  Mr.  Clarkson's 
the  other  day." 

"  What  was  his  name  ?" 

"Brown — John  Brown." 

"Indeed,"  said  Hargrove  inquiringly.  "What  is  he 
like  ?" 

"Just  a  plain  man,  sir.  A  farmer,  who  cannot  stay 
upon  his  farm  because  men  are  held  in  bondage." 

"A  great  talker,  I  suppose." 

"No,"  said  Martin  reflectively.  "  Xow  that  I  think' 
of  it,  I  should  say  he  talked  but  little.  There  was  a 
great  deal  said,  and  it  seemed  as  if  all  that  was  worth 
saying  came  from  him  ;  but  he  used  very  few  words. 
It  did  not  seem  to  be  so  much  what  he  said  as  the  way 
he  said  it  that  made  the  impression." 

"How  was  that  V" 


2TG  HOT  PLOWSHARES 

"Oil,  I  cannot  tell  you.  There  was  such  an  air  of 
conviction  and  authority  about  him  that  even  Mr. 
Clarkson  could  not  argue  with  him." 

"That  is  remarkable." 

"Oh,  he  cut  everything  short  with  just  a  sentence 
when  they  tried  to  reason  with  him — a  sentence  that 
cut  up  the  root  of  all  the  argument,  however.  There 
was  a  man  there  who  has  written  books  and  poems  who 
was  discoursing  on  the  Constitution.  He  said  that  the 
clause  '  No  person  held  to  service  or  labor  shall, '  etc. , 
was  meaningless  and  would  some  time  be  so  decided  by 
the  courts.  '  It  has  been  so  decided,'  said  Brown.  '  In- 
deed, '  said  the  other  in  surprise  ;  '  by  what  court  ? ' 
'By  the  Judge  that  sits  upon  the  Great  White  Throne,' 
answered  Brown,  as  reverently  as  if  in  prayer.  The 
conversation  had  been  very  animated  before,  and  there 
was  much  difference  of  opinion,  but  none  seemed  to 
wish  to  carry  the  controversy  farther," 

"It  was  a  stinging  rebuke  to  those  who  admit  the 
moral  wrong  of  slavery  but  make  excuse  that  the  Con- 
stitution shields  it,"  said  Hargrove.  "What  does  he 
propose  to  do  ?  " 

"Just  go  to  Kansas  and,  as  he  says,  'help  the  poor 
that  cry.'    He  has  two  sons  there  now." 

"  And  you  wish  to  go  with  him  V" 

"While  I  listened  I  felt  like  those  disciples  who  said, 
'  Did  not  our  hearts  burn  within  us  while  he  talked  with 
us  ?'    And  afterwards  I  could  not  get  rid  of  his  ideas." 

"  And  you  would  still  like  to  go  ?" 

"  I  wish  to  do  all  I  can  for  liberty  and  the  right." 

"I  would  not  have  you  do  less,  and 'your  own  con- 
science must  be  your  guide.  Everj^  man  owes  it  to 
himself,  his  country  and  God  to  do  the  most  good  that 
he  can.  I  may  be  Avrong  on  this  matter.  The  others 
may  be  right.     You  thai  arc  coming  to  the  front  now 


'\HE  THAT  18  TO  BE:'  277 

must  decide.  It  is  a  question  for  to-morrow.  I  will 
offer  no  objection." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said' Martin  exultantly;  "some- 
how, I  thought  father  was  wrong  in  thinking  that  you 
would." 

"  But  I  would  like  you  to  thmk  of  one  or  two  things 
before  you  decide." 

"With  pleasure." 

"The  struggle  with  slavery  will  not  be  ended  in  a 
day." 

"You  have  made  that  plain  already." 

"  Your  father  is  a  very  wealthy  man," 

"Well?" 

"  The  management  of  his  estate  will  devolve  on  you 
at  his  death." 

"Well?" 

"  Wealth  is  an  engine  of  great  power,  for  good  as  Avell 
as  evil." 

"Of  course." 

"A  brave  boy  is  one  thing  ;  a  strong  man  another." 

"Yes?" 

"Which  is  worth  the  more  to  liberty  and  righteous- 
ness— Martin  Kortright,  single-handed,  immature,  one 
of  a  disorganized  crowd  of  squatters,  half  scout  and 
half  freebooter  ;  made  an  outlaw,  perhaps,  by  the  impe- 
rious necessity  of  organized  government — or  Martin 
Kortright,  matured,  developed,  clothed  with  intellectual 
mail  and  armed  with  the  power  to  lead  a  thousand 
whithersoever  he  may  choose  ?" 

"I  see,"  said  Martin,  after  a  moment's  thought, 
"and  I  will  wait," 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A   SUBTERKANEAN   MYTH. 

It  was  October.  The  maples  blazed  upon  the  hill- 
sides. The  river  flowed  betr/een  banks  of  gold  and 
bronze  and  under  arching  canopies  of  shifting  flame. 
The  busy  inland  city  was  set  in  painted  squares.  The 
trees  that  lined  the  streets  paved  the  ways  of  commerce 
with  purple  and  gold,  and  sent  troops  of  airy  fays  in  the 
glowing  garb  of  elf-land  dancing  in  the  sunshine  up  and 
down  the  dark  green  lawns,  and  in  and  out  among  the 
borders  where  dahlias  and  asters  and  coMcombs  showed 
the  deep  rich  lights  in  which  summer  says  adieu.  The 
smoke  drifted  lazily  away  from  the  tall  chimneys.  The 
sportsman's  shot  echoed  from  the  distant  hill-sides. 
Troops  of  children  chased  the  dancing  leaves  or  sought 
for  nuts  beneath  the  pictured  heaps.  By  the  long  low 
sheds  beyond,  the  autumn  sun  shone  down  on  many  a 
steel-like  mirror,  and  lighted  heaped-up  piles  of  snowy 
crystals  which  seemed  like  mimic  forerunners  of  the 
white  drifts  that  soon  would  cover  hill  and  plain. 

The  year  had  been  a  full  one.  The  earth  had  ripened 
golden  harvests.  The  prosperity  of  the  nation  in  that 
year  had  been  unparalleled  by  anything  in  its  previous 
history.  More  gold  had  been  minted  than  the  world  had 
ever  gloated  over  before  in  a  twelvemonth.  The  new 
Occident  promised  inexhaustible  wealth.  The  looms 
were  busy ;  the  diamond-pointed  spindles  flashed  and 
whirred  through  daylight  hours  and  on  into  the  night ; 
the  hammers  rang ;  the  barns  were  bursting ;  the  or- 
chards bent  beiKjath  their  burden.  The  land  waited  to 
378 


A  SUB  TERR  ANEj:m  3IYTH.  279 

give  thanks  for  unmeasured  bounty.  Peace  was  in  the 
air.  The  sunshine  was  the  harbinger  of  blessing.  The 
land  was  ready  for  repose.  Those  burning  questions 
that  for  years  had  agitated  the  popular  heart  and 
threatened  the  peace  of  our  Israel,  had  all  been  settled. 

Slavery  had  conquered.  "Held  to  service"  had  been 
defined  by  statute  to  be  that  servitude  which  the  framers 
of  our  fundamental  law  meant  to  protect  while  they 
shrank  from  using  its  name  in  an  instrument  purporting 
to  be  the  charter  of  liberty.  The  arm  of  the  law  had 
been  strengthened  and  the  bonds  of  the  slave  riveted 
more  securely  than  ever  before.  The  great  Whig  leader 
had  shaken  hands  with  the  master-spirit  of  the  pro- 
slavery  element,  and  responded  heartily  to  his  joyful 
prediction  that  for  a  hundred  years  at  least  the  question 
of  the  slave's  freedom  or  bondage  would  trouble  the 
statesmen  no  more.  The  Puritan-descended  expounder 
of  the  Constitution  had  given  the  weight  of  his  corrupted 
intellect  and  surrendered  his  debauched  conscience  to 
the  slave  power.  By  his  aid,  the  Samson  of  free  thought 
had  been  securely  bound.  The  Constitution  was  su- 
preme. Slavery  was  paramount.  The  political  horizon 
was  clear.  No  cloud  even  a  handbreadth  wide  was 
to  be  seen.  The  nation  had  but  to  eat,  drink  and  be 
merry,  with  no  fear  of  the  morrow.  In  this  very  city, 
in  the  heart  of  the  Empire  State,  the  vibrant  tones  of 
the  great  Whig  leader  had  but  recently  proclaimed  the 
conflict  ended.  He  had  pointed  out  that  the  time  had 
come  when  the  law  must  prevail  over  personal  inclina- 
tion, and  private  conscience  must  bow  to  public  neces- 
sity. The  guaranties  of  the  Constitution  must  be  re- 
deemed by  the  children  of  its  framers.  The  rights  of 
those  who  were  parties  to  the  great  covenant  through 
those  from  whom  they  held,  must  be  regarded.  "  Held 
to  service  or  labor"  was  to  be  no  more  a  vain  form  of 
words.      The  nation  had  put  the  baton  of  power  into 


280  HOT  FLOW^IIARES. 

the  master's  hand,  and  the  aegis  of  its  authority  M-as 
above  his  head  Avhile  he  sought  diligently  for  the  wan- 
derer whom  the  Xorth  Star  drew  like  a  loadstone  toward 
its  chilly  realm.  It  had  given  him  leave  to  go  and 
search  and  take.  It  unbolted  the  sanctuary's  doors  that 
he  might  take  the  ''held-to-service"  from  the  altar  of 
prayer.  It  opened  the  palace  and  the  hovel ;  it  tore 
down  the  freeman's  castle  to  render  up  the  slave.  It 
smote  the  hand  that  dared  resist  and  scourged  the  feet 
that  loitered  when  commanded  to  bring  aid. 

It  was  all  over.  For  sixty  years  the  murmur  of  re- 
monstrance had  been  growing  louder  and  louder,  and  the 
signs  of  contumacy  more  frequent.  It  was  high  time 
that  the  nation  should  speak.  Its  former  utterances 
had  come  to  be  unheeded.  The  pledge  of  the  fathers 
was  well  nigh  forgotten.  Men  openly  oftered  asylum  to 
the  runaway.  They  made  null  and  void  the  pledge  of 
the  Constitution.  The  vanes  upon  the  churches  pointed 
toward  freedom.  Men  oftered  public  prayer  for  the 
fugitive  from  bondage.  They  put  money  into  the  hands 
of  the  destitute.  They  hid  the  aflrighted  in  their  hearts. 
They  gave  aid  and  comfort  to  the  oppressed — food  and 
raiment  to  the  bondman  who  fled.  It  was  time  that  the 
nation  spoke. 

And  here,  in  the  Valley  of  the  Mohawk,  on  the  great 
highway  along  which  the  East  had  run  to  meet  the 
West,  and  along  which  the  West  came  back  with  heavy 
laden  hands  full  of  rich  offerings  to  the  East,  the  tide  of 
discontent  ran  high.  Here  Jared  Clarkson  lived  and 
gave — for  to  him  life  was  one  continuous  opportunity  to 
give.  A  land-owner  whose  possessions  Avould  dwarf  an 
English  dukedom,  he  gave  with  lavish  hand  the  soil 
itself,  and  openly  maintained  that  a  restriction  upon  the 
ownership  of  land  was  a  prime  essential  of  free  institu- 
tions and  general  progress  and  prosperity.  Forgetful  of 
himself,  he  was  so  ambitious  for  the  good  of  his  fellows 


A  SUBTERRANEAN  MYTH.  281 

that  no  disappointment  could  dampen  the  ardor  of  his 
devotion.  Hating  all  forms  of  caste,  he  sought  not  to 
drag  the  highest  down,  but  to  lift  the  lowliest  up.  He  was 
of  such  chivalric  honor  that  when  he  had  once  promised 
a  gift  he  would  not  recall  his  charity,  even  when  he  had 
found  the  object  unworthy.  Counting  all  men  as  his 
brothers,  he  felt  the  wrongs  of  each  as  if  they  touched  the 
marrow  of  his  life.  A  patriot  of  passionate  devotedness, 
he  sought  excuses,  not  always  consonant  with  reason,  for 
the  acts  of  the  fathers.  Hating  oppression  for  its  own 
sake,  he  scrupled  not  at  the  means  by  which  he  wrought 
for  freedom.  Worshipping  law,  he  counseled  and  prac- 
ticed openly  and  boldly  the  evasion  of  unjust  statutes 
and  resistance  to  them.  Asking  nothing,  giving  every- 
thing, inconsistent  only  in  the  reasons  with  which  he 
sought  to  maintain  beliefs  too  high  for  meaner  men 
to  appreciate  ;  ready  always  with  helpful  words,  and 
putting  to  shame  even  his  own  high  ideals  by  the 
conduct  of  his  life ;  it  is  not  strange  that  the  magnet- 
ism of  his  example  should  inspire  men  to  a  feeble 
emulation  of  his  vaguely  understood  nobility.  He 
was  not,  as  Hargrove  well  said,  a  leader.  Erratic  in 
all  things,  his  light  was  meteoric  and  marvelous,  yet 
uncertain.  What  he  would  believe  none  could  tell. 
That  he  would  advocate  at  all  hazards  what  he  be- 
lieved right  none  ever  doubted.  In  matters  of  con- 
science he  astounded  the  dull  and  shamed  the  evil- 
minded.  Beside  the  corrupt  and  selfish  he  stood  like  an 
archangel  clothed  in  light.  He  saw  life's  weakness, 
meanness,  misery ;  and  pitied  it.  He  saw  every  wrong 
that  scourged  humanity,  and  hated  it.  He  sought  out 
every  good  cause,  and  helped  it.  He  was  an  Arthur 
among  the  knights-errant  of  his  time,  and  held  a  dia- 
mond-edged excalibar,  with  a  hand  never  soiled  with 
dishonor  and  a  heart  never  tainted  with  ambition.  Yet 
he  was  not  a  leader — only  an  exemplar.     He  did  not 


282  IlOr  PLOWSHARES. 

combine  and  organize  his  fellows,  and,  above  all,  he 
lacked  that  stability  which  gives  a  life  to  one  purpose — 
that  steadfastness  which  puts  aside  what  is  of  less 
importance  until  that  which  is  paramount  has  been 
achieved.  He  was  like  the  comet  among  celestial 
bodies — bright,  glowing,  wonderful,  upon  w^hich  all  gaze 
with  admiration,  but  none  set  their  w^atches  by  its  move- 
ments. Yet  within  the  scope  of  his  personal  acquaintance 
his  influence,  though  somewhat  uncertain,  was  great. 
The  worst  of  men  felt  impelled  by  his  example  to  do 
good.  Around  him  centered  a  thousand  vagaries  of 
theory  and  endeavor,  all  of  which  he  promoted  because 
he  thought  they  were  based  on  good  intent.  He  was 
a  forerunner  who  prepared  the  way  for  him  who  should 
come  after.  He  kept  the  public  mind  awake,  waiting 
and  anxious  for  that  light  which  he  was  not.  So  it 
was  that  the  region  where^  he  lived  had  become  one  in 
which  the  ideas  of  law  and  obedience  Avere  strangely 
confounded  witli  those  of  abstract  justice  and  ultimate 
right. 

It  was  time  that  the  government  spoke ;  not  only 
in  the  words  of  the  statute  but  b}'  the  mouth  of 
its  most  illustrious  representative.  The  spring  sun- 
shine was  upon  the  hills  and  meadows  of  the  valley 
when  the  great  Expounder  stood  before  the  listening 
multitudes  of  the  growing  inland  city,  and  with  the 
threatening  aspect  of  a  Jove  that  does  not  know  his 
power  has  fled,  proclaimed  the  law,  and  warned  the 
people  that  from  their  busy  streets  would  yet  be  taken 
the  man-beast — the  "/lomo  sed  non  persona''''  of  the  civil 
law — "held  to  service  or  labor"  by  another.  It  was  a 
strange  prophecy,  made  with  exultant  bitterness  by 
the  child  of  the  Pilgrims,  who  had  sold  his  l)irthright  for 
a  vain  ambition — an  ambition  that  was  to  be  foiled 
again  by  the  very  spirit  over  whose  downfall  he  then 
blindly  exulted.     Sad   hearts  listened  to  his  prediction. 


A  SUBTERRANEAN  MYTH  283 

Angry  eyes  hurled  back  the  defiance  of  his  threatening 
orbs.  Groans  and  hisses  mingled  with  the  applause  that 
greeted  the  words  of  the  orator.  He  smiled  in  sorrow- 
ful pity  as  he  heard  them.  The  statesman's  duty  ran 
hand  in  hand  with  the  foiled  leader's  thirst  for  revenge. 
The  stroke  he  gave  was  for  the  nation's  safety,  but  was 
aimed  at  an  enemy  who  had  balked  his  will. 

The  autumn  had  come,  and  the  prophecy  was  about  to 
be  fulfilled.  An  awkward  youth  loitered  curiously  about 
the  streets.  He  watched,  with  a  singular  furtiveness, 
those  whom  he  chanced  to  meet.  There  was  something 
slouching  and  uncertain  in  his  gait.  Meeting  another, 
he  stepped  almost  off  the  pavement  and  half  removed 
his  hat,  with  a  timid,  apologetic  look  as  he  did  so. 
He  was  well  dressed,  but  his  clothes  seemed  some- 
how not  to  fit  him,  or  rather  he  appeared  not  to  be  at 
home  in  them.  He  was  evidently  a  stranger,  and  a 
stranger  ill  at  ease.  He  saw  a  crowd  of  people  going 
into  a  public  hall,  and  drew  near  and  watched  them 
curiously.  He  was  well  built,  but  his  face  had  a  dull, 
sallow  look.  There  was  a  red  mark  like  a  scar  upon  his 
i-ight  cheek  and  rumiing  back  toward  his  ear.  His  dark- 
brown  hair  was  cut  close,  but  yet  showed  in  rich  brown 
waves  upon  nape  and  brow.  The  hands  that  showed 
below  his  white  cuffs  Avere  large  and  strong,  and  deeply 
browned  by  exposure.  His  blue  eyes  were  full  of  watch- 
ful wonder.  All  at  once  he  started,  gazed  quickly 
around  and  hurried  away  from  the  place  where  the 
crowd  were  gathering.  Two  men,  who  seemed  to  be 
casually  passing  by  on  the  other  side,  walked  leisurely 
in  the  same  direction. 

Within  the  hall  five  hundred  people  had  met  together, 
a  little  company  of  evil-disposed  malcontents.  They 
were  of  strangely  contrasted  types.  No  band  of  con- 
spirators against  the  law  and  the  established  order  in  a 
giviUzed  laud  ever  showed  a  greater  medley.     Men  and 


384  HOT  PLOWtiHARES. 

women,  old  and  young,  black  and  white,  high  and  low, 
were  there.  On  every  face,  in  every  eye  shone  the 
light  of  a  great  common  purpose.  Even  children  who 
had  come  with  their  parents  were  hushed  into  a  solemn 
intentness.  A  Quaker  woman,  with  a  placid,  motherly 
face,  sat  upon  the  platform  busily  knitting  during  the 
proceedings.  A  swart,  lean  figure  walked  to  and  fro  as 
fierce  invective  and  scornful  epigram  fell  from  his  lips. 
A  dark  face,  with  eyes  that  flashed  fire  beneath  over- 
hanging brows,  with  pointed  beard  and  lips  whose  quiv- 
ering smile  brought  Mephistopheles  to  mind,  told  of  the 
slavery  he  had  tasted  in  his  own  person.  Ah !  terrible 
were  the  words  of  wrath,  and  more  terrible  still  the 
forebodings  of  despair,  those  stout-hearted  men  and 
women  uttered.  They  were  few  where  they  had  hoped 
to  be  many.  The  last  great  blow  had  been  a  terrible 
one.  It  had  decimated  their  ranks.  The  faint-hearted 
and  the  hollow-hearted  had  fallen  off.  But  to  those  who 
remained  the  stroke  had  been  as  that  of  flint  upon 
steel.  The  fire  flashed  out  of  their  hearts  in  hotter 
words  and  fiercer  resolves  than  ever  before.  They  said, 
these  wicked  malcontents,  that  "  the  enactment  of  the 
Fugitive  Slave  Law,  and  the  general  acquiescence  in  it, 
under  the  influence  of  devil-prompted  speeches  of  poli- 
ticians and  devil -prompted  sermons  of  priests,  give 
fearful  evidence  that  this  is  a  doomed  and  a  damned 
nation." 

Their  language  was  not  only  incendiary,  but  it  was  des- 
perate. The  prayer  which  opened  their  deliberations  was 
full  of  burning  maledictions  aimed  at  the  best,  the  most 
illustrious  and  most  respectaljle  citizens  in  the  land. 
One  who  listened  to  their  counsels  would  have  thought 
that  religion  and  civilization  were  only  invented  for  the 
sake  of  the  poor  and  the  oppressed.  That  all  men 
should  be  free  seemed  to  them  the  end  of  aspiration. 
Beside  this  all  else  seemed  to  them  mean  and  trivial. 


A  SUBTERRANEAN  MYTH.  ^85 

Diverse  in  all  other  things  they  were  agreed  on  this.  One 
grave  man,  from  whose  face  the  dark  hair  rolled  back 
in  billoAvs,  when  the  storm  of  angry,  despairing  words 
grew  calm  for  a  moment,  rose  and  said  in  a  voice  and 
with  a  look  that  made  every  heart  flutter  with  api^re- 
hension : 

"  We  have  had  words  enough.  "Why  is  not  something 
done  ?" 

"  Done  ?    Ah,  me,  what  can  be  done  ?" 

So  fluttered  every  heart  in  the  sigh  that  swept  over 
the  audience.     The  grave  man  answered  solemnly  : 

"We  can  die !" 

Then  Jared  Clarkson  spoke.  Words  of  hope  and  cheer, 
— bitter  denunciation  of  the  enemies  of  liberty  and  scath- 
ing criticism  of  its  friends  fell  from  his  lips.  He  could 
not  be  discouraged.  Nothing  could  hide  from  him  the 
light.  Victory  and  defeat  were  alike  to  him  in  bringing 
always  nearer  the  desired  end. 

"What  can  we  do?"  he  said.  "We  must  take  away 
the  shield  of  the  Constitution  !  The  Abolitionists  of  the 
North  must  insist  that  it  shall  not  sanction  such  a  com- 
pound of  robbery  and  murder  as  slavery.  The  Federal 
Constitution  must  be  strictly  construed.  In  terms  it  does 
not  sanction  slavery.  The  word  was  purposely  excluded. 
The  slaveholder  will  be  strong  so  long  as  he  can  plead 
law  for  his  matchless  crime.  Take  from  him  that  plea 
and  he  will  be  weak.   We  can  do  it !" 

"Not  without  blood!"  said  the  grave  man,  inter- 
rupting. 

A  black-robed  woman,  sad-faced,  gray-haired,  rose 
suddenly,  threw  her  black-gloved  hands  above  her  head, 
showing  white,  slender  arms,  and  wailed  in  agonized 
tones:  "Blood!  blood!  More  blood!  The  land  is  soaked 
with  blood  !     How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long  ?" 

Her  dark  eyes  rolled  wildly.  Her  face,  which  showed 
the  wreck  of  beauty,  was  ghastly  in  its  pallor.     A  strong, 


286  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

motherly  woman  who  sat  next  her  drew  her  down  and 
clasped  the  shapely  head  to  her  broad  bosom.  "I  see 
it !  I  see  it !"  cried  the  Sybilline  figure,  half  starting  up 
again,  and  pointing  toward  the  old  man  in  the  aisle. 
"  Rivers  and  seas  of  blood  1  Great  billows  of  blood,  and 
he  rides  upon  them  !  He  rides  upon  them  !" 

The  man  smiled.  The  knitter  on  the  platform  forgot 
her  work.  The  women  shuddered  and  wept.  The  strong 
woman  in  whose  arms  she  was  drew  her  down  again  and 
soothed  her  like  a  child.  The  man  in  the  aisle  sat  down. 
A  low  murmur  of  pity  swept  through  the  hall.  Clark- 
son  essayed  to  speak,  but  tears  choked  him.  "If  we 
were  not  a  nation  of  atheists,"  he  said  at  length,  "we 
should  tremble  as  if  we  heard  the  words  of  prophecy." 

A  shiver  ran  through  the  audience.  The  door  was 
half  opened  and  a  scarred  face  looked  in  upon  the  ab- 
sorbed and  breathless  assembly.  The  wanderer  upon 
the  street  gazed  in  wonder  on  the  malcontents.  There 
were  no  evil  or  debauched  faces  among  them.  Sincerity, 
benevolence,  uprightness  had  set  their  seal  on  every 
brow.  They  were  bad  men  and  women — dangerous 
men  and  women — conspirators  against  all  existent  good 
— the  enemies  of  Heaven's  unalterable  laws — yet  only 
in  one  thing  had  they  sinned.  Besotted  license  had  no 
representative  there.  Pure  Uves  stood  behind  their  blas- 
phemous words.  Charity,  kindness,  unbounded  love, 
devotion  to  the  right,  as  they  saw  the  right,  marked 
every  life.  Albeit,  they  were  all  the  more  dangerous 
to  the  nation's  peace.  Had  they  only  been  bad  in  other 
directions  also  they  could  have  been  put  down  ruth- 
lessly, but  their  clean  lives  and  unselfish  devotion  pro- 
tected them  from  martyrdom,  and  made  the  virus  of 
their  mistaken  dogmas  all  the  more  malignant.  The 
youth  with  the  scarred  face  listened  for  a  time,  then 
glancing  backward,  turned  and  departed  hastily.  Across 
the  way  two  men  watched  for  his  reappearance.     The 


A  SUBTERRANEAN  MYTH.  287 

one  pointed  him  out  to  the  other  as  he  came  forth. 
They  crossed  the  street  toward  him.  Another  joined 
them  on  the  way. 

Clarkson  continued  within : 

"But  who  talks  of  blood?  God  may  demand  it  for 
the  blood  that  has  been  shed — He  may  require  it  for 
the  remission  of  sin ;  but  it  is  not  for  us  to  think  of  it 
as  a  means.  Ours  are  not  the  weapons  of  violence. 
God  has  given  us  the  Constitution  with  which  to  fight 
the  battles  of  the  oppressed." 

"It  is  the  shield  of  the  oppressor — a  league  with  hell," 
hissed  the  black  Apollo  through  his  set  teeth. 

"Oh,  but  there  are  two  Constitutions,"  said  Clark- 
son — "the  literal  and  the  historical.  The  literal  is  the 
charter  of  liberty.  The  historical  is  the  sheet-anchor  of 
slavery.     The  historical  has  prevailed." 

"The  literal  is  a  dead  letter,"  said  the  gray-clad  knit- 
ter who  sat  beside  him  on  the  platform,  with  quiet  sen- 
tentiousness. 

But  Clarkson  would  not  heed.  His  exalted  chivalry 
would  cast  no  blame  upon  the  fathers.  To  him  the 
words  were  separable  from  the  spirit.  He  would  save 
the  Constitution  from  stain  and  redeem  the  slave  from 
bondage  also.  His  friends  were  annoyed  at  his  stub- 
bornness. They  accused  him  of  inconsistency.  He  was 
blind  and  deaf  to  remonstrance.  "I  have  helped  the 
slave  to  flee,"  he  said.  "I  have  paid  the  master  to  let 
him  go  free.  If  men  are  dying  of  pestilence  we  do  not 
stop  to  ask  the  cause,  but  give  relief  at  once.  If  tyrants 
hold  my  brother  in  bondage  shall  I  not  ransom  him  be- 
cause they  act  unrighteously  ?" 

There  was  a  cry  upon  the  street.  Two  of  the  men  who 
dogged  the  footsteps  of  the  youth  had  seized  him  and  were 
taking  him  away,  when  he  wrenched  himself  loose  and 
fled.  They  pursued  and  caught  him  again.  They  wore 
badges  of  authority.     They  were  the  guardians  of  the 


288  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

law,  and  this  struggling,  panting,  manacled  thing  they 
dragged  between  them,  covered  with  mire,  bruised  and 
bleeding,  to  the  temple  of  justice  was  the  man-beast — 
the  human  chattel — the  "  held-to-service  "  under  the 
"historical"  Constitution. 

While  Clarkson  argued  a  bell  tolled  solemnly.  It  was 
the  signal  agreed  upon  beforehand — the  knell  of  Liberty 
murdered  by  Law.  The  little  company  of  malcontents 
knew  that  the  statesman's  prediction  had  been  fulfilled. 
The  law  had  come  into  the  midst  of  them  to  rebuke 
their  lawlessness.  Then  fled  doubt  and  fear.  There 
was  no  more  argument.  Five  hundred  firebrands  rushed 
out  among  the  people.  In  an  instant  the  streets  were 
thronged  with  angry  men.  Scowling  faces  filled  the 
forum  of  justice.  Women  stood  at  the  gateways  and 
wrung  their  hands  and  wept.  Children  clung  to  their 
mothers,  hushed  and  pallid  with  a  nameless  terror. 
Men  ceased  their  labor,  asked  the  cause  of  the  tumult, 
cursed  the  law's  cruelty,  and  sullenly  wrought  on.  The 
swift  formalities  were  hurried  through.  Jared  Clarkson 
pressed  forward  to  speak  for,  and  to,  the  man  the  law 
was  about  to  transform  into  a  thing.  In  vain!  The  judg- 
ment was  quickly  rendered  by  willing  lips.  The  man- 
chattel  was  hurried  along  the  street  to  prison,  under  the 
guard  already  provided,  there  to  await  upon  the  morrow 
transportation  to  the  master's  home,  to  whom  his  "ser- 
vice and  labor"  were  rightfully  due.  The  brown,  sallow 
face  was  streaked  with  blood  and  full  of  sullen  determi- 
nation. "  I  will  die,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  the  master's 
look  of  triumph,  "but  I  will  not  be  a  slave  1^''  He  had 
been  a  petted  servant  too.  But  the  law  was  vindicated, 
and  the  malcontents  were  shown  how  strong  its  right 
hand  was,  in  that  it  plucked  from  the  midst  of  them 
one  whom  they  had  unlawfully  enticed  to  flee. 

The  harvest  moon  looked  down  upon   the   city.     An 


A  8UBTERRANEAN  MYTH.  289 

angry  crowd  was  gathered  at  the  prison  gate.  Jared 
Clarkson's  voice  commanded  that  the  doors  be  broken. 
Three  thousand  angry  freemen  surged  against  the  walls. 
The  keepers  of  the  prison  quailed.  The  captors  of  the 
chattel  fled.  The  doors  flew  open.  The  chains  fell  off". 
The  man-beast  fled  away  toward  the  Northward.  The 
malcontents  had  answered  the  statesman's  challenge. 
Brave  words  had  ripened  into  braver  acts,  and  when  the 
law  asked  who  had  \iolated  its  safeguard,  Jared  Clark- 
son  proudly  answered  "I."  But  no  man  dare  lay  hands 
upon  him. 

As  the  carriage  bearing  the  man-chattel  whirled  away 
through  the  city's  streets,  the  glare  of  a  solitary  lamp  fell 
on  the  scarred,  pallid  young  face  within.  A  woman  by  an 
open  gateway  saw  it — a  dark-eyed,  gray-haired  woman. 
Instantly  her  eyes  lighted.  She  sprang  away  from  the 
embracing  arm  that  was  about  her  and  sped  after  the 
flying  vehicle. 

"My  baby!  My  boy !"  she  shrieked  as  she  ran. 

Kind  friends  followed  quickly — men  and  women,  who 
guessed  her  grief  and  saw  that  it  had  made  her  wild — 
some  who  had  heard  her  story  ;  many  who  had  witnessed 
her  woe.  They  followed  fast,  but  not  as  fast  as  she 
fled,  and  hours  had  passed  away  before  strong  but  kindly 
hands  brought  her  back  to  the  mansion  from  which  she 
had  fled,  bedraggled,  moaning,  chattering,  crazed.  Ten- 
der hands  received  and  nursed  and  soothed ;  but  when 
the  morning  dawned  Alida  Eighmie  held  a  rag-doll  to 
her  bosom,  and  smiled  and  cooed  as  she  clasped  and 
kissed  the  shapeless  mass. 

" My  boy,  my  baby  !  Hush!  hush!"  she  said  to  those 
who  spoke  to  her,  "do  not  waken  him!  I've  just  found 
him  after  ever  so  long — ever  so  long !" 

The  next  day  after  these  events  the  malcontents  met 
again  and  still  further  blasphemed  the  gods  of  our  na- 


290  MOT  PLOWSHARES. 

tional  Olympus.  Unanimou.sly  these  earnest,  peaceful, 
kindly-hearted  people  resolved  that  "the  Satanic  Daniel 
Webster"  was  a  "base  and  infamous  enemy  of  the  hu- 
man race."  It  was  a  fearful  accusation  to  leave  upon 
the  tablet  of  history  against  the  ambitious  giant  who 
paltered  and  parleyed  and  perished — the  grandest  intel- 
lect of  his  day  chained  to  the  weakest  conscience,  and 
attested  by  the  most  meagre  showing  of  good  results.  He 
was  not  what  their  words  painted  him,  but  when  men  be- 
lieve a  truth  so  fervently  as  to  forget  themselves,  their 
words  are  not  always  measured  with  precision.  The 
malcontents  were  all  the  harsher  judges,  because  them- 
selves unselfish.  They  stood  in  a  seven-times-heated 
furnace,  and  their  words  were  as  fire.  It  was  not  brain 
alone  that  spoke,  but  soul  that  cleft  to  the  joint  and 
marrow.  In  behalf  of  the  poorest  and  meanest  they 
dared  to  denounce  the  highest  and  strongest.  The  storm 
that  was  expected  to  destroy  served  only  to  srengthen 
them. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

•  A  FREE  INSTITUTION. 

Among  the  institutions  which  arose  out  of  the  fact  of 
slavery,  there  are  two  so  peculiar  and  distinctive  in  their 
character  that  no  tracing  of  the  thought  of  that  day  in 
its  influence  upon  the  formation  of  character  would  be 
at  all  complete  should  it  omit  to  consider  them.  One 
has  passed  into  history  under  the  grotesque  and  ridicu- 
lous name  of  the  "Underground  Railroad."  It  was 
really  not  an  organization  or  institution  at  all,  but  the 
simple  voluntary  co-operation  of  individuals  to  promote 
a  certain  end.  When  we  reflect  how  deep-seated  and 
earnest  had  become  the  hostility  to  slavery,  and  how 
many  there  were  in  all  parts  of  the  Korth  who  were 
willing  to  defy  the  law  and  imperil  their  own  personal 
safety  to  aid  in  its  overthrow,  the  wonder  is,  not  that 
the  "Underground  Railroad"  became  so  effective  a 
method  of  assisting  the  runaway  slave,  as  that  it  re- 
mained to  the  last  so  completely  disorganized  and  fortui- 
tous in  its  work. 

It  had  two  basis  principles  :  first,  that  to  assist  a 
human  being  to  achieve  his  personal  liberty  was  a  di- 
vinely ordained  duty,  and,  second,  that  the  institution 
of  slavery  itself  could  somehow  or  other  be  broken  down 
by  a  system  of  attacks  upon  it  in  the  shape  of  continu- 
ous and  concerted  escapes  from  bondage.  So,  too,  it  had 
two  specific  methods  of  operation,  the  one  to  assist 
fugitives  who,  of  their  own  motion,  had  undertaken  to 
escape,  and  the  other  to  arrange  for  securing  and  expe- 
diting the  escape  of  individuals  and  parties  who  were 
291 


292  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

about  to  attempt  escape.  The  difficulty  and  danger  of 
such  enterprises  can  only  be  dimly  understood  at  this 
time.  The  whole  South  was  in  fact  an  armed  garrison. 
Every  port  was  guarded,  and  every  vessel  outAvard- 
bound  was  required  to  submit  to  the  most  rigid  inspec- 
tion ;  every  train  and  depot  was  closely  w^atched  for 
fugitives,  and,  beyond  that,  almost  every  important 
point  in  the  North  Avas  infested  with  mercenary  spies, 
who  were  ahvays  anxious  to  secure  the  rewards  offered 
for  the  detection  and  detention  of  fugitives.  In  almost 
every  city  of  the  North  these  persons,  very  frequently 
under  the  direction  and  control  of  professional  men  of 
influence  and  position,  regularly  consulted  the  files  of 
the  Southern  papers  for  the  description  of  escaped 
slaves,  Avhich  were  clipped  and  studied  as  carefully  as  a 
"Western  cow-herder  studies  the  advertised  marks  of  a 
strayed  or  stolen  steer. 

The  difficulty  of  traveling  through  the  South  without 
exciting  suspicion  and  the  danger  attending  all  attempts 
of  this  character,  can  only  be  very  faintly  understood  by 
those  who  do  not  understand  the  organization  of  South- 
ern society  in  those  daj'S.  Every  slaveholder  was,  of 
course,  bound  by  his  own  interest  to  exercise  the  utmost 
vigilance,  not  only  over  his  own,  but  over  each  one  of 
his  neighbors'  chattels-real.  At  the  best,  the  slave  was 
a  species  of  property  that  demanded  the  utmost  vigi- 
lance. His  longing  for  freedom  was  irrepressible,  and 
the  more  intelligent  and  valuable  he  became,  the  more 
intense  was  this  longing.  The  mere  journey,  alone,  on 
foot,  and  unaided,  from  the  Gulf  to  the  Lakes,  was  no 
small  undertaking  for  the  stoutest-hearted  man.  But 
when  we  reflect  that  this  journey  had  to  be  made  almost 
always  by  night,  in  the  midst  of  watchful  and  suspicious 
enemies,  and  with  the  ineffaceable  brand  of  color  upon 
the  brow  of  the  fugitive,  Avithout  money  and  without 
scrip,  we  are  struck  Avith  amazement  at  the  thought  that 


A  FREE  INSTITUTION.  293 

any  should  have  attempted  it.  This  statement,  how- 
ever, only  feebly  shadows  forth  the  difficulties  that  beset 
the  path  of  the  fugitive.  The  States  of  the  South  were 
really  military  camps.  The  system  of  patrols  made 
necessary  to  prevent  combinations  and  concerted  move- 
ments among  the  slaves,  carefully  guarded  every  high- 
way. The  slave  could  not  leave  his  master's  premises 
without  a  written  pass,  without  danger  of  arrest  and 
punishment.  The  master  was  not  only  an  owner,  but 
an  officer  of  a  vast  military  organization,  whose  duty  it 
was  to  watch  the  roads,  bridges,  ferries  and  other  ave- 
nues to  freedom  in  order  that  none  should  escape.  Also, 
the  law  forbade  all  meetings  of  slaves,  so  that  assist- 
ance and  concert  of  action  were  made  possible  only  by 
the  utmost  diligence  and  in  defiance  of  danger.  A 
secrecy  that  is  almost  inconceivable  to  one  who  has  not 
studied  the  conditions  of  that  society  with  care,  was 
necessary  at  every  step  of  such  a  venture. 

Besides  that,  the  danger  to  be  encountered  was  by  no 
means  slight.  In  every  Southern  State  the  punishments 
for  inciting  slaves  to  escape,  or  aiding  or  abetting  them 
in  so  doing,  were  of  the  severest  character :  whipping, 
branding,  and  in  most  cases,  for  the  repeated  offense, 
hanging.  Then  the  penalty  incurred  by  the  slave  him- 
self, not  only  from  the  wrath  of  a  master,  who  had  in 
some  states  the  actual  power  of  life  and  death  and  in 
none  stopping  very  far  short  of  it,  but  also  from  the  law 
itself,  was  something  terrible.  In  South  Carolina,  for 
instance,  for  the  first  attempt  at  escape  he  was  liable  to  be 
severely  whipped ;  for  the  second  to  be  still  more  severely 
whipped  and  have  an  ear  cut  off";  for  the  third  to  be 
branded  and  lose  the  other  ear,  and  for  the  fourth  to  have 
the  tendons  of  the  right  leg  cut  at  the  heel  or  be  hanged, 
at  the  discretion  of  the  magistrates  trying  him.  Through 
all  this  array  of  obstacles,  however,  men  fled  toward  lib- 
erty and  the  North  Star,  and  despite  all  laws  they  found 


294  HOT   PLOWSHARES. 

men  at  the  North  to  aid  and  protect  them.  In  some 
cases,  as  between  certain  accessible  points,  there  came 
to  be  well-known  places  of  rest  and  refuge.  Men  were 
found  Avho  risked  and  lost  their  lives  in  inducing  slaves 
to  undertake  the  peril  of  a  tedious  flight.  Men  cheer- 
fully gave  time  and  money,  endured  imprisonment, 
faced  obloquy— in  short,  became  martyrs,  willingly  and 
gladly,  simply  from  devotion  to  the  "idea  of  the  sacred- 
ness  of  personal  liberty  as  an  "inalienable  right"  of 
"all  men."  Ship-owners  brought  away  cargoes  of  hu- 
man freight.  Husbands  and  sons,  in  some  cases  even 
wives  and  daughters,  went  into  the  jaws  of  death  to 
rescue  their  beloved  ones.  Strangers  shared  the  risk 
and  burden.  White  men  and  women  worked  side  by 
side  with  free  blacks  in  this  singular  crusade  against  an 
institution  that  did  them  no  harm  save  as  it  held  their 
fellow-men  and  women  in  bondage. 

It  was  a  strange  movement.  From  the  Atlantic  to 
the  Mississippi,  almost  every  mile  of  the  frontier  line 
between  freedom  and  slavery  bore  the  track  of  a  fugitive 
or  was  stained  with  his  blood.  Prices  were  set  upon  the 
heads  of  many  prominent  men  for  aiding  and  abetting 
such  movements.  They  were  indicted  by  grand  juries, 
and  in  some  instances  attempts  were  made  to  take  them 
to  Slave  States  for  triaL  The  number  actually  engaged 
at  any  one  time  in  this  movement  was  very  small  as  com- 
pared with  the  whole  population  of  the  Korth,  but  the 
number  who  sympathized  with  them  was  very  great. 
Perhaps  the  very  element  of  danger  added  a  strange  zest 
to  the  undertaking.  Men  of  the  most  diverse  characters 
and  positions  were  engaged  in  it.  Of  the  most  numerous 
and  active  of  these,  Jared  Clarkson  was  a  fair  type. 
Earnest  and  sincere  beyond  all  question  ;  self-sacrificing 
to  a  rare  degree,  but  yet  greedy  of  praise  and  approbation, 
and  having  an  insatiable  love  for  notoriety;  with  a  nature 
erratic  if  not  inherently  eccentric  and  unbalanced,  he  was 


A  FREE  INSTITUTION.  295 

a  leader  among  those  who  spoke  and  wrote,  a  constant 
aid  to  those  who  wrought  and  an  impracticable  ally  of 
those  who  sought  to  use  other  and  more  moderate  means 
for  procuring  the  same  end. 

As  a  means  of  abolishing  slavery  the  "  Underground 
Railroad  "  was  ridiculously  insufficient.  In  no  single  year 
did  the  whole  number  of  successful  escapes  equal  the  gain 
in  an  average  county  of  one  of  the  Slave  States.  Even 
had  the  entire  population  of  the  North  favored  it,  it  is 
doubtful  if  it  could  ever  have  made  any  visible  inroads 
upon  the  institution.  Its  chief  value  as  a  character- 
forming  element  of  the  times  was  in  its  marvelous  re- 
cord of  heroic  attempts,  and  in  the  facts  with  reference 
to  the  mysterious  region  lying  to  the  southward  of 
Mason  and  Dixon's  line  which  it  constantly  brought  to 
light.  That  the  blood  of  martyrs  is  the  seed  of  the 
church  was  never  more  beautifully  illustrated  in  histor3\ 
The  furnace-blast  of  persecution  made  heroes  of  the 
merest  clods,  and  lifted  into  a  most  glaring  prominence 
men  who  would  otherwise  have  died  in  obscurity.  The 
strange  charm  Avhich  undescved  hostility  gives  the  vic- 
tim was  throAvn  around  the  advocates  of  abolition.  Men 
went  to  their  meetings  to  revile  and  persecute,  stayed  to 
applaud,  and  came  away  with  the  mark  of  the  beast  in 
their  foreheads.  Then,  too,  there  was  mystery  and 
daring  and  unlawfulness  to  charm  the  brave  and  pique 
the  curious.  The  colored  orator  was  in  his  own  person 
at  once  a  show  and  an  argument.  The  woman,  who 
stood  by  her  husband  on  the  platform  Avhile  dangerous 
and  oifenslve  missies  flew  about  his  head,  was,  of 
course,  a  heroine.  The  tragedy  was  so  deep  that  no 
one  could  withhold  his  sympathy  from  the  victims. 
The  hopelessness  of  the  old  Greek  drama  was  in  every 
hour  of  the  struggle  that  marked  the  decade  of  which 
Ave  Avrite.  The  slave  was  an  Edipus  Avhose  woes  Avere 
forever  enacted  Avithin  the  sight  of  all.      The  old  saAV 


396  UOT  PLOWSHARES. 

and  pitied.  Tlie  young  heard  and  shuddered.  The  na- 
tion's heart  echoed  his  moans.  The  nation's  life  leaned 
daily  more  and  more  to  his  relief.  Hourly  the  conflict 
of  ideas  greAv  more  intense.  Momently  the  decisive 
struggle  grew  nearer.  While  Time  lagged  in  his  flight, 
men  and  women  were  growing  up  in  whose  hearts 
liberty  was  enshrined  above  all  other  thought.  The 
conflict  that  then  raged  was  but  a  forerunner  of  a 
mightier  revolution ;  the  slave  who  fled  to  freedom 
but  an  antitype  of  the  slave  to  whom  liberty  should 
come  almost  as  an  unsought  boon.  The  uprising  of  free- 
men against  an  unjust  law  was  but  a  precursor  of  the 
wrath  that  should  sweep  away  the  foundations  of  that 
law.  Time  mocked  at  the  Stateman's  wisdom  and  jus- 
tified the  folly  of  the  Malcontents. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

FOR   THE  AMENDMENT   OF   DIVINE   ERROR. 

There  was  another  institution  of  that  time  which, 
indeed,  has  striven  hard  to  survive  the  chaos  that  has 
since  intervened,  and  is,  perliaps,  more  instructive  as  a 
historical  study  than  any  other  of  tlie  institutions  that 
owed  their  origin  to  slavery.  It  did  nothing  to  shape 
thought,  and,  so  far  as  the  character  and  destiny  of  the 
country  was  concerned,  it  was  utterly  futile  and  insig- 
nificant. It  neither  led  nor  followed  public  sentiment. 
It  was  neither  for  nor  against  slavery.  Fixing  at  the 
outset  upon  a  middle  course,  it  led  a  life  of  queer  in- 
decision, Apologizing  first  to  one  school  of  fanatics  and 
then  to  the  other,  and  always  protesting  to  both  that, 
while  not  for  their  respective  conflicting  dogmas,  it  also 
was  not  opposed  to  them.  In  its  case,  the  Scripture 
rule  was  plainly  reversed  —  the  negation  of  favor  did 
not  establish  a  presumption  of  hostility.  The  difficulty 
of  this  position  may  be  better  understood  when  we  con- 
sider the  fact  that  the  subject-matter  of  which  the  in- 
stitution treated  was  so  closely  connected  with  the  two 
extremes  of  thought  as  to  be  inseparable  from  either. 
As  they  were  concerned  with  the  African  in  bondage,  so 
this  institution  was  anxious  and  careful  about  him  in 
his  freedom.  It  was  called  The  American  Colonization 
Society.  As  slavery  brought  the  African  to  this  conti- 
nent for  the  purpose  of  enslavement,  this  society  took 
him  back  to  Africa  for  the  purpose  of  Uberation.  For 
the  millions  in  bondage  it  had  no  regard;  for  the  few 
thousands  who  were  free  it  had  a  watchful  interest.     It 


298  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

had  two  basis  principles;  first,  non-mterference  with 
slavery,  and,  second,  the  removal  of  the  freed  black 
from  the  land.  These  two  ideas  attracted  to  its  support 
the  most  diverse  and  incongruous  elements.  It  afibrded 
a  neutral  ground  on  which  the  leaders  of  two  mutually 
destructive  principles  met  upon  a  platform  strangely 
insincere  in  fact  and  yet  perfectly  consistent  in  theory 
and  letter. 

This  society  held  that  on  the  Western  Continent 
the  African  in  a  state  of  freedom  was  a  most  potent 
influence  for  evil.  As  to  the  African  in  a  state  of 
bondage  it  was  entirely  non-committal.  Its  prime 
object  was  to  remove  that  demoralizing  and  disturb- 
ing element,  the  free  negro.  Its  ulterior  purpose  was 
to  build  up  a  black  republic  on  the  shores  of  Africa. 
It  placidly  assumed  that  the  Divine  will  was  directly 
and  palpably  thwarted  when  the  African  was  brought 
to  America.  It  was  clearly  the  purpose  of  the  Creator 
that  Africa  should  belong  to  the  Negro— so  th-fe  society 
believed— and  America  to  the  White  man.  This  natural 
distribution  having  been  interfered  with  by  the  slave- 
trade  the  first  great  duty  of  the  Caucasian  to  himself 
was,  by  the  creed  of  the  society,  to  put  an  end  to  that 
trade,  and  then,  as  rapidly  as  possible,  to  restore  the 
freed  blacks  to  the  continent  "prepared  for  them  from 
the  foundation  of  the  world." 

These  peculiar  doctrines,  in  connection  Avith  its  equivo- 
cal position  in  regard  to  slavery,  had  the  eftect  of  uniting 
under  its  banners  some  curious  extremes  of  thought. 
In  the  North,  very  many  were  captivated  with  its  ideas 
under  the  belief  that  they  offered  a  peaceful  solution  of 
the  problem  of  slavery.  It  was  fondly  hoped  that,  as 
the  years  went  by,  the  society  would  grow  strong,  the 
foundations  of  the  new  African  Republic  be  securely 
laid,  the  slave-trade  rigorously  suppressed,  and  the 
capability  of  the  African  for  seif-governmerit  clearly  d€-. 


FOR  THE  AMENDMENT  OF  DIVINE  ERROR.    399 

monstratcd  ;  that  the  conscience  of  slaveholders  would 
become  enlightened  and  that  they  would  crowd  the 
docks  from  which  the  Liberian  packets  were  to  sail,  in 
earnest  rivalry  with  each  other  to  obtain  passage  for 
their  late  chattels,  now  gladly  freed  and  restored  to 
Africa,  Christianized  and  civilized,  to  aid  in  uplifting 
the  "dark  continent."  It  was  a  beautiful  theory,  and 
the  tender-hearted  humanitarians  who  already,  in  1817, 
had  come  seriously  to  moot  the  question  of  the  nation's 
right  to  uphold  and  protect  slavery,  seized  ujion  this 
beatific  vision  with  the  utmost  alacrity.  To  them  it 
was  the  natural  antidote  and  appointed  remedy  for 
slavery.  There  was  another  class,  too,  strong,  clear- 
headed, practical  men,  who  realized  the  ills  and  iniqui- 
ties of  slavery,  but  who  saw  the  guaranty  in  the  Con- 
stitution, respected  the  claims  of  that  instrument,  and 
could  see  no  means  by  Avhich  slavery  could  be  assailed 
or  overthrown  and  its  provisions  still  be  honestly  re- 
garded. To  them  there  seemed  a  remote  possibility 
that  the  African  republic  might  develop  in  the  covu'se 
of  generations  into  something  that  might  exercise  a  re- 
pressive and  modifying  influence  upon  American  Sla- 
very. At  least,  they  could  see  nothing  else  that  could 
be  lawfully  and  properly  done  that  gave  any  promise  of 
the  amelioration  of  the  slave's  condition,  and  so  gave 
their  sympathy  and  support  to  one  of  the  most  singular 
and  absurd  theories  that  ever  affected  an  intelligent 
people. 

The  sentiment  that  whatever  could  be  done  for  the 
colored  man  ought  to  be  done,  as  a  sort  of  indirect  atone- 
ment for  the  crime  of  his  enslavement,  was  the  main- 
spring of  all  the  support  this  society  received  at  the 
North.  Of  the  colored  man  as  a  "free  negro,"  in  the 
sense  in  which  that  word  was  used  at  the  South,  the 
Northern  man  knew  little  and  cared  less.  In  no  North- 
ern St^te  was  this  population  in  the  least  troublesome 


300  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

or  in  any  degree  dangerous  or  offensive.  It  was  only  in 
the  hope  that  it  might  exert  a  reflex  influence  upon 
slavery  in  the  Southern  StateB  that  the  ISTorthern  man 
gave  either  money  or  prayers  to  Liberia  and  the  emi- 
nently respectable  but  yet  Janus-faced  Society  by  which 
it  was  founded.  It  was  diflicult  for  a  Northern  mind 
to  understand  the  real  relations  of  this  movement  to 
slavery.  The  South  and  her  institutions  have  always 
been  terrai  incognitce  to  the  average  Northern  mind.  Al- 
ready, while  these  lines  are  being  written,  slavery  has 
become  a  myth  which  the  younger  citizen  of  the  North 
finds  it  hard  to  realize. 

"Is  it  a  fact,"  asked  an  intelUgent  young  lawyer  of 
the  writer  within  a  week,  "is  it  a  fact  that  men  and 
women  were  actually  bought  and  sold  in  those  days?" 

"Certainly." 

"Were  they  attached  ami  levied  on,  mortgaged,  sold 
for  taxes,  stolen,  sold  at  auction,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  just  like  cattle  ?" 

"  Of  course  ;  why  not  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  only  I  cannot  realize  that  such  things 
ever  were." 

A  like  incapacity  to  "realize"  what  actually  was  the 
state  of  slavery  which  they  so  very  generally  deplored, 
affected  the  people  of  the  North  in  that  time.  They  did 
not  dream  that  the  Colonization  Society  could  by  any 
possibility  be  of  the  least  advantage  to  slavery  or  the 
slave-owner.  To  them  it  was  a  matter  of  great  surprise 
that  the  master  should  favor  its  purposes  at  all,  and 
this  fact  was  for  a  time  regarded  as  an  indication  of  a 
general  desire  on  the  part  of  a  considerable  portion  of 
the  Southern  planter-class  to  co-operate  in  any  feasible 
and  peaceful  method  of  abolishing  slavery  gradually  and 
quietly.  There  were  some  throughout  the  South  who 
no  doubt  entertained  these  views.  The  names  of 
very  many  of  that  remarkable  class  who  may  properly 


FOR  TllK  AMENDMENT  OF  DIVINE  ERROR.    301 

be  termed  "Southern  Abolitionists,"  are  to  be  found 
upon  the  rolls  of  this  society.  They  were  men  who, 
like  Hargrove,  were  opposed  to  slavery  for  the  sake 
of  the  master  race.  They  sometimes  admitted  its  in- 
justice to  the  negro  as  well,  but  their  view  of  the  Afri- 
can was,  as  a  rule,  hardly  more  favorable  than  that  of 
the  advocates  of  slavery  themselves.  They  were  willing 
to  labor  for  emancipation,  if  the  manumitted  slaves  could 
at  once  be  removed  from  the  country ;  and  their  idea  of 
universal  emancipation  was  of  a  time  when  not  only  no 
slave  but  also  no  negro  should  be  found  upon  the  conti- 
nent. They  were  earnest,  sincere,  just-minded  men ; 
but  if  the  alternative  had  been  presented  to  them  of  free- 
dom with  the  negro  to  remain  in  the  land  where  he  was 
born  a  slave,  or  the  continuance  of  slavery,  it  is  prob- 
able that  by  far  the  greater  part  of  them  would  have 
preferred  the  latter.  These  men  heartily  and  loyally 
espoused  the  cause  of  the  Colonization  Society  as  an 
entering  wedge  for  peaceful  abolition.  Thej^  even  urged 
national  appropriations  in  its  behalf,  and  uttered  glow- 
ing prognostications  of  the  time  when  freedom  should 
come  to  the  slave  with  a  steerage  ticket  to  Liberia  and 
compensation  to  the  owner — all  the  act  of  the  national 
government. 

A  quarter  of  a  century  before  the  time  of  which  we 
write,  grave,  thoughtful  men,  even  aspirants  for  the 
Presidential  chair,  seriously  argued  in  the  Senate  of  the 
United  States  the  question  of  the  purchase  and  trans- 
portation to  the  shores  of  Liberia  of  two  millions 
of  subject  souls.  The  reasons  given  for  the  move- 
ment were  its  humanity,  justice  and  the  ultimate 
well-being  of  the  white  race.  Even  in  that  day  one 
clear-sighted  man  urged  that  course  as  cheaper  than 
a  civil  war,  which  he  declared  must  result  from  the 
continuance  of  the  institution.  He  was  laughed  at 
almost  as  much  as  that  Polish  patriot — the  friend  of 


302  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

Jefferson — who,  cl3'ing,  left  his  modest  fortime  to  accu- 
mulate, and  its  proceeds  from  time  to  time  to  be  used  in 
the  purchase  and  liberation  of  slaves.  Fortunately,  the 
law  held  such  a  gift  invalid,  and  the  wisdom  of  a  later 
day  laughed  down  the  foreboding  fool  who  dared  to 
speak  of  Avar  in  connection  with  the  patriarchal  insti- 
tution. 

With  these  various  classes  in  its  ranks  the  society  from 
the  outset  boasted  a  most  amazing  arra}^  of  great  names : 
presidents,  chief  justices,  senators,  congressmen,  gov- 
ernors, scientists,  literati,  bishops,  ministers,  men  of 
wealth  and  men  of  note,  abolitionists,  slaveholders, 
political  economists,  philanthropists — in  short,  almost 
all  who  had  a  handle  at  either  end  of  their  names,  or  a 
call  to  make  the  world  better  in  any  particular  re- 
spect, were  added  to  its  numbers  and  gave  to  its  pro- 
ceedings a  sense  of  dignily  and  propriety  which  was 
painful  to  contemplate  in  connection  with  the  meagre 
results  obtained.  Its  annual  meetings  were  held  at  the 
national  capital,  and  were  occasions  of  unlimited  pomp- 
ous declamation  and  indirect  electioneering.  Year  after 
year  the  great  Whig  leaders.  Clay  and  Webster,  vied 
with  each  other  in  alternate  laudation  of  the  purposes 
and  designs  of  the  institution.  Within  sight  of  the 
slave-pens  of  Alexandria  they  declared  again  and  again 
that  its  purpose  was  not  directly  or  indirectly  to  inter- 
fere with  slavery,  but  only  to  offer  a  means  for  the  re- 
establishment  upon  the  soil  of  the  continent  the  Divine 
will  had  appointed  for  them  to  occupy,  of  all  Africans 
who  might  chance  to  become  free  within  the  limits  of 
the  United  States. 

By-and-by  another  class  of  men  began  to  accept  this 
doctrine.  They  were  those  who  did  not  desire  either 
the  immediate  or  gradual  extinction  of  slavery,  but  de- 
prr"'^  rather  its  continuance  and  prosjierity.  They  saw 
*^^':!^    he  removal  of  the  free  black  made  the  slave  more 


FOR  THE  AMENDMENT  OF  DIVINE  ERR  OR.    ?m 

secure,  more  contented,  more  industrious,  more  peaceful 
and  more  hopeless.  To  this  class  the  Colonization  So- 
ciety was  an  especial  boon,  and  many  of  them  espoused 
its  doctrines  with  alacrity.  Gradually  the  extreme  Aboli- 
tionists of  the  North  began  to  comprehend  this  fact,  and 
thenceforward  they  denounced  the  society  as  a  movement 
in  the  interests  of  Slavery.  Another  class  of  Southern 
men,  however,  reasoned  that  whatever  recognized  in 
any  degree  the  self-directing  capacity  of  the  negro  Avas 
in  fact  an  enemy  of  slavery  in  disgviise,  and  they  were 
equally  fierce  in  their  denunciation  of  the  society  as  a 
device  of  the  Abolitionists,  and  designed  to  be  simply  a 
forerunner  of  compulsory  emancipation.  So  it  was  both 
upheld  and  denounced  because  it  opposed  slavery  and 
because  it  favored  it,  neither  of  which  things  it  did  or 
proposed  to  do.  In  trying  to  please  every  one  it  suc- 
ceeded in  displeasing  all,  and  by  declaring  its  absolute 
neutrality  it  bore  the  burden  of  the  sins  and  errors  of 
both  extremes  of  thought.  It  held  to  the  last  its  array 
of  great  names,  but  the  tumult  of  the  gathering  conflict 
drowned  its  appeals,  and  long  before  the  struggle  reached 
its  climax  the  people  had  almost  forgotten  this  institu- 
tion for  which  at  one  time  the  churches  had  so  devoutly 
prayed — it  being  one  of  the  few  things  of  that  day 
which  the  pro-slavery  and  anti-slavery  Christians  could 
unite  in  heartily  commending  to  the  Divine*favor.  As 
a  historical  fact,  it  is  chiefly  valuable  as  marking  the 
almost  universal  admission,  directly  or  indirectly,  that 
slavery  was  unnatural,  hurtful  and  unjust.  It  was  a 
weak,  blind  effort  to  save  the  Constitution  and  yet  find 
a  way  for  securing  the  downfall  of  slavery.  It  was  an 
attempt  to  do  indirectly  what  the  fundamental  law  for- 
bade to  be  done  directly. 

It  was  to  this  institution  that  Hargrove  had  appealed 
to  aid  him  in  carrying  George  Eighmie's  will  into 
eft'ect.     Its  refusal  was  strictly  in  the  line  of  its  policy. 


304  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

This  eminently  respectable  body  was,  in  the  strictest 
sense,  all  things  to  all  men.  To  the  Abolitionist  of  the 
North  it  held  out  the  alluring  hope  that  through  its 
peaceful  and  benign  influence  slavery  would  yet  melt 
and  disappear.  To  the  Slaveholder  it  painted  the  de- 
lights of  a  paradise  where  all  the  freemen  were  white, 
and  all  the  blacks  were  slaves,  into  which  should  come 
no  free  negro  serpent  to  tempt,  corrupt  and  annoy.  It 
represented  in  his  eyes,  in  a  peculiar  degree,  "the  peace 
of  God  and  the  state,"  since  the  slaveholder  Avas  tho- 
roughly convinced  that  the  supremest  beatitude  of  so- 
ciety was  one  in  which  there  were  only  masters  and 
slaves.  He  would  willingly  have  dispensed  with  the  non- 
slaveholding  whites  also  in  order  to  secure  this  blissful 
condition.  If  by  any  means  the  great  men  that  avouched 
the  society's  respectability  could  have  devised  some 
method  by  which  the  poot  whites  also  could  have  been 
transported,  whether  to  Africa  or  elsewhere,  the  slave- 
owners would  have  hailed  it  with  unmixed  rapture,  and 
as  slaver}^  ruled  the  land  there  would  have  been  no  ques- 
tion as  to  appropriations  and  governmental  favor.  It  was 
a  favorite  doctrine  among  the  most  pronounced  of  the 
slave-propagandists  of  that  day,  that  the  free  blacks  and 
"poor  Avhites"  were  the  great  enemies  of  the  "institu- 
tion." They  little  thought  that  the  day  Avould  come 
when  the  landless  whites  Avould  pour  out  their  blood  like 
water  in  its  defense. 

It  would  not  do  for  such  a  society  as  this  to  risk  its 
character  for  non-interference  with  the  "institution" 
by  furnishing  transportation  to  slaves  freed  by  a  master 
about  whose  title  there  could  be  the  slightest  doubt. 
Akeady  the  Abolitionists  of  the  North  had  sounded  the 
alarm  that  it  was  the  friend  and  ally  of  slavery,  and  its 
supporters  in  those  states  had  either  grown  lukewarm  or 
had  fallen  away  entirely.  It  still  had  its  list  of  great 
names  and  eminent    respectabilities   there.     Men   who 


FOR  THE  AMENDMENT  OF  DIVINE  ERROR.    305 

feared  every  new  movement,  who  thought  the  safe 
ground  was  always  midway  between  the  two  extremes 
of  thought,  still  clung  to  it.  They  gave  to  its  revenues 
but  sparingly,  as  is  the  nature  of  such  minds,  which 
are  usually  as  frugal  of  pelf  as  of  faith.  The  churches 
at  the  North,  that  once  gave  with  enthusiasm,  now 
received  its  periodical  appeals  Avith  coldness.  Jared 
Clarkson,  who  had  mistakenly  endowed  it  with  a  free 
hand  aforetime,  now  denounced  it  bitterly.  All  who 
agreed  with  him  not  only  regarded  it  as  "the  hand- 
maid of  slavery,"  but  also  despised  its  hypocritical 
evasion  and  double-faced  appeals  to  conflicting  senti- 
ments. The  society  had  come,  at  the  time  of  which  we 
write,  to  look  to  the  South  for  its  chief  support.  The 
conscience  of  the  dying  slaveholder  every  now  and  then 
bequeathed  to  it  not  only  the  slaves  he  could  no  longer 
hold,  but  also  the  means  for  their  removal.  At  one  of 
its  anniversaries,  about  this  time,  the  great  Kentucky 
orator,  appealing  against  a  prejudice  Avhich  had  begun 
to  obtain  in  some  of  the  Southern  States  against  this 
too  frequent  freeing  of  the  slave  by  bequest,  and  the 
stringent  laws  that  had  been  enacted  to  prevent  it,  as 
well  as  hostile  resolutions  of  some  of  the  legislatures 
in  states  where  the  Southern  Abolitionists  were  propor- 
tionately numerous  and  active,  had  said  : 

"Why  should  Southern  men  fear  the  action  of  this 
society  ?  A  vast  majority  of  its  members  and  supporters 
are  not  only  Southern  men,  but  slaveholders  also." 

So  it  would  not  do  for  the  society  to  give  oifense  to 
the  majority  of  its  supporters.  It  not  only  declined  to 
aid  Hargrove,  but  through  the  information  that  its 
agents  gave  with  regard  to  his  designs,  awakened  the 
alarm  of  the  adverse  claimants  of  the  estate  of  George 
Eighmie  and  inspii-ed  them  to  renewed  activity.  His 
next  letter  from  Matthew  Bartlemy  contained  this  in- 
formation : 


306  HOT  PLOWSIIABBS. 

The  enemy  have  finally  moved  in  earnest.  Yesterday 
they  procured  an  injunction  restraining  you  from  remov- 
ing any  of  the  slaves.  I  suppose,  if  you  do  not  appear 
and  answer,  their  next  motion  will  he  for  the  appointment 
of  a  receiver.  While  they  cannot  obtain  personal  service 
of  the  writ  of  injunction,  you  must  remember  that  it  is 
one  of  those  writs  which  are  self-executing,  and  a  know- 
ledge sufficient  to  sustain  a  reasonable  belief  of  its  issue 
is  sufiicient  to  render  you  liable  for  its  disobedience.  I 
have  no  doubt  that  the  plaintiffs  will  adopt  measures  to 
have  you  fully  informed  of  it,  and  take  it  for  granted  that 
you  will  now  make  no  attempt  to  remove  the  negroes.  We 
may  as  well  fight  it  out  here,  and  I  should  advise  that  a 
suit  be  begun  against  you  immediately  by  the  woman 
Lida,  for  herself  and  her  children,  in  order  that  the  ques- 
tion may  be  taken  to  the  court  of  highest  resort. 

Upon  receipt  of  this  letter,  Captain  Hargrove  wrote 
to  Jared  Clarksou  as  follows : 

The  time  has  come  when  I  must  select  some  one  to  be 
the  recipient  of  the  trust  conferred  upon  me  by  the  will  of 
my  half-brother,  George  Eighmie.  You  know  in  general 
terms  its  character.  Both  as  a  man  of  business  and  as  a 
philanthropist,  you  are  peculiarly  fitted  to  carry  it  into  ef- 
fect in  case  of  my  death  or  inability  from  any  cause  to  do 
so.  This  is  especially  urgent,  from  the  fact  that  the  woman 
Alida,  whom  you  were  kind  enough  to  shelter  and  care  for 
in  your  home  at  the  outbreak  of  her  unfortunate  malady,  is 
beyond  doubt  hopelessly  insane.  It  is  true  there  are  half- 
lucid  intervals,  but  the  better  part  of  the  time  she  is 
sunk  in  a  despondency  from  which  she  cannot  be  aroused. 
Her  delusion  seems  to  have  taken  the  form  of  fancying 
that  a  child,  who  was  cruelly  stolen  from  her  in  his  early 
years,  has  been  restored,  and  to  her  crazed  and  bewildered 
brain,  the  rag-baby  to  which  she  so  closely  clings  is  that 
child.  The  boy  is  no  doubt  dead  or  hopelessly  lost  in  the 
labyrinth  in  which  slavery  hides  its  victims.  He  may  be 
in  the  swamps  of  Louisiana  or  the  cotton-fields  of  South 


FOR  THE  AMENDMENT  OF  DIVINE  ERROR.    307 

Carolina  ;  but,  wherever  he  is,  the  oblivion  that  hangs  over 
the  nameless  existence  of  the  slave  as  effectually  hides 
him  as  if  the  grave  covered  him.  For  the  sake  of  her 
daughter,  however,  as  well  as  for  my  own  protection, 
perhaps,  it  is  necessary  that  a  suit  be  brought  against  me 
in  her  name  and  as  a  resident  of  this  state.  This  can  only 
be  done  by  an  inquisition  of  lunacy,  and  the  appointment 
of  a  guardian  for  her  as  a  lunatic.  This  suit,  while  appa- 
rently hostile,  will  in  reality  be  in  my  interest.  It  is  pos- 
sible that  the  will  of  my  brother  may  be  declared  invalid, 
and  in  that  case  I  become  responsible  of  covirse  to  the 
heirs  for  the  rents  and  profits  of  the  estate,  for  the  slaves 
that  I  have  set  free,  and  others  that  I  hope  to  set  free 
hereafter.  The  estate  has  been  a  good  while  in  my  hands, 
and  I  have  hesitated  to  fulfill  my  brother's  injunction, 
and  free  all  the  slaves,  for  a  good  many  reasons,  promi- 
nent among  which  is  the  fact  that  I  could  not  fully 
determine  what  to  do  with  them  afterwards.  The  funds 
accruing  from  the  property  I  have  used  for  the  following 
purposes  : — First,  a  moderate  sum  yearly  has  been  devoted 
to  the  ^care  of  Alida  and  her  daughter ;  second,  a  larger 
sum  has  been  expended  in  searching  for  the  boy  Hugh.  As 
I  had  nothing  to  guide  me  except  a  peculiar  birthmark,  it 
has  been  entirely  unsuccessful.  I  have  also  freed  a  por- 
tion of  the  slaves,  and  have  accumulated  a  fund  to  be  used 
in  freeing  the  others,  my  design  being  to  secure  from  the 
estate  a  fair  support  for  Alida  and  her  child  or  children  as 
if  they  had  been  the  lawful  widow  and  children  of  my  tes- 
tator, and  then  to  use  the  balance  to  effect  the  manumis- 
sion of  his  slaves.  I  am  satisfied  that  this  was  the  pur- 
pose for  which  he  made  me  his  sole  devisee. 

Now,  if  the  will  be  held  invalid  in  the  suit  already  be- 
gun by  the  collateral  heirs,  I  must  not  only  make  good  all 
these  amounts,  but  Alida  and  her  children  become  assets 
of  the  estate,  unless  her  marriage  can  be  successfully  set 
up.  It  was  undoubtedly  legal  in  New  York,  and  very  prob- 
ably illegal  in  Carolina.  If,  however,  her  claim  were  set 
up  in  the  United  States  Court,  it  is  the  opinion  of  my  coun- 


308  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

sel  that  she  would  prevail,  and  herself  and  children  be  de- 
clared heirs  of  the  estate.  This  would,  of  course,  relieve 
me  and  save  them.  I  will  provide  for  all  the  expense  of 
such  a  suit,  and,  indeed,  will  perform  the  will  of  my  bi"o- 
ther  if  it  require  the  hulk  of  my  own  estate  to  do  it. 

In  the  event  of  my  death,  also,  it  might  be  very  import- 
ant that  some  one  should  hold  the  key  to  the  identity  of 
Alida's  daughter.  According  to  her  father's  expressed 
desire,  I  have  so  well  disguised  her  existence  that  even  her 
mother  is  in  doubt  with  regard  to  it.  On  the  other  hand, 
it  may  be  necessary  to  conceal  and  protect  her.  She  may 
be  either  a  slave  or  an  heiress,  and  in  either  case  there 
might  arise  occasions  when  it  would  be  necessai'y  to  es- 
tablish her  identity.  This  is  all  the  more  necessary,  as  I 
shall  take  with  me  upon  a  voyage  I  am  contemplating  my 
old  servant  Jason,  who  is  the  only  one  who  knows  all  the 
facts  attending  the  transformation  of  the  child  from  what 
she  was  to  what  she  is. 

I  do  not  think  it  will  ever  become  necessary  to  use  this 
knowledge,  and  I  am  most  desirous  to  avoid  the  revelation 
for  the  sake  of  the  girl  herself.  He  may  have  been  wrong, 
but  Mr.  Eighmie  was  especially  anxious  that  his  children 
should  never  know  that  there  was  any  suspicion  of  taint 
upon  their  lawful  birth  or  Caucasian  descent.  Of  course,  its 
unnecessary  revelation  could  only  excite  the  keenest  an- 
guish. I  feel  that  I  can  safely  intrust  both  the  business  and 
the  secret  to  your  honor  and  discretion.  I  would  prefer  that 
you  should  remain  yourself  uninformed  except  in  certain 
emergencies.  I,  therefore,  desire,  with  your  permission, 
to  intrust  to  your  care  a  sealed  statement  of  all  the  mate- 
rial facts,  which  shall  only  be  opened  b.y  you  under  cir- 
cumstances which,  in  your  judgment,  shall  dictate  such  a 
course  ;  this  package,  with  your  own  suggestions  in  regard 
to  it  as  well  as  mine,  to  be  transmitted  to  any  one  you 
may  select  to  act  with  like  discretion  in  case  of  your  death. 

Please  let  me  know  whether  you  will  accept  this  trust, 
and  thereby  confer  a  favor  of  the  utmost  importance,  not 


FOR  THE  AMENDMENT  OF  DIVINE  ERROR.    309 

only  upon  the  unfortunate  sufferers  from  the  evils  of  slavery, 
but  also  upon 

Your  humble  servant, 

Merwyn  Hargrove, 

To  this  epistle,  when  the  servant  who  bore  it  returned 
upon  the  morrow,  Jarecl  Clarkson  returned  the  following 
answer : 

My  Dear  Friend  :  My  own  affairs  press  upon  me  so 
heavily,  both  as  to  time  and  strength,  that  I  seem  forbidden 
by  common  prudence  to  add  to  it  the  burden  of  other  peo- 
ple's business  or  care.  The  matter  which  you  present  is 
of  so  peculiar  a  nature,  however,  and  I  am  already  so 
deeply  interested  in  those  whom  it  most  nearly  concerns, 
that  I  have  decided  to  make  an  exception  to  my  rule  and 
do  whatsoever  you  require.  Humanity,  justice  and  liberty 
commend  the  course  you  have  taken.  I  do  not  think  the 
requirement  of  secrecy  as  to  the  descent  a  wise  one,  though . 
all  mvist  admit  that  the  fact  of  being  an  African,  even  by  the 
slightest  admixture,  has  become  through  the  wickedness 
of  our  nature  and  life,  a  most  terrible  evil.  This  is  not  only 
foolish  but  wicked.  It  is  a  fight  against  God.  Yet  it  is 
none  the  less  a  fearful  curse  to  those  who  bear  the  know- 
ledge in  their  hearts  that  in  their  veins  is  but  one  drop  of 
richer  blood  than  the  Caucasian.  I,  myself  have  seen  a 
man  in  whom  it  was  hardly  possible  to  trace  a  sign  of  ad- 
mixture, curse  God  with  a  bitterness  that  knew  no  remedy, 
for  the  evil  that  rested  on  his  life.  I  have  seen  a  woman, 
as  fair  as  any  in  the  land,  and  as  well  endowed,  intellect- 
ually, whose  descent  was  clouded  by  a  taint  that  might 
show  upon  her  children's  brows  —  I  have  heard  her  de- 
clare that  she  would  willingly  be  flayed  alive  if  thereby 
she  could  feel  herself  exalted  to  the  level  of  the  white 
race.  I  can  conceive  of  nothing  more  horrible  than  the 
sensations  of  one  thus  situated  who  has  grown  up  with 
all  the  exclusive  assumption  of  the  white  race,  and  you 
may  be  sure  that  I  would  be  as  loath  to  scathe  any  soul 
with  the  curse  of  a  body  akin  to  the  despised  and  perse- 


810  HOT  PLOW.^HARES. 

cutecl  African  as  you  can  be.  I  have  ahvays  made  it  a  mle 
to  do  whatever  lay  in  my  power  to  remove  the  evil  of 
slavery.  I  have  bought  the  slave  from  his  master  and  set 
him  free  ;  I  have  aided  the  fugitive  to  escape  ;  I  have  de- 
fended him  from  the  claim  of  an  unrighteous  law  ;  I  have 
endeavored  to  alleviate  the  poverty  it  entailed  upon  its 
victims  when  set  free  by  liberal  gifts,  and  now  feel  that 
your  request  that  1  should  aid  in  alleviating  the  worst  of 
all  the  ills  that  flow  from  this  most  fearful  of  all  iniqui- 
ties is  one  that  I  can  by  no  means  refuse. 

Please  inform  me  of  all  that  it  is  necessary  for  me  to 
know  and  I  will  discharge  the  trust  you  impose,  if  not  so 
self-forgetfully  as  you  have  done,  yet  at  least  with  an 
equal  desire  to  do  what  is  right  and  just  and  merciful  to 
all  concerned.  Yours,  very  truly, 

Jared  Clarkson. 

The  answer  to  Mr.  Bartlemy's  letter  directed  him  to 
enter  an  appearance  and  prepare  an  answer  for  Merwj-n 
Hargrove  in  the  suit  in  equity  brought  against  him  liy 
the  collateral  heirs  of  George  Eighmie,  and  enclosed  a 
power  of  attorney  from  "Jared  Clai-kson,  the  guardian 
of  Alida  Eighmie,  a  lunatic,  and  her  two  children, 
Heloise  and  Hugh  Eighmie,  infants  of  the  ages  of  six- 
teen and  eighteen  years  respectively,"  authorizing  and 
directing  him  to  bring  suit  against  Merwyn  Hargrove 
for  the  recovery  of  the  estate  of  George  Eighmie,  de- 
ceased, the  husband  of  the  said  lunatic  and  father  of 
the  said  infants.  Then  the  retinue  at  Sturmhokl  was 
reduced,  the  shutters  were  closed  and  the  master  de- 
parted ;  only  the  weak,  chattering  woman  and  her  watch- 
ful care-takers  remained  in  the  deserted  home. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

BY   AN   UNrRACTICED  HAND. 

It  was  a  few  days  after  the  events  of  the  last  chapter 
that  Martin  Ivortright,  now  in  the  first  term  of  his  senior 
year  at  college,  received  the  following  letter,  much  to  the 
detriment  of  his  record  in  the  recitations  of  that  day  : 

Dear  Martin  : — I  do  not  believe  I  ever  can  write  a 
love-letter.  I  told  Amy  so  when  I  wrote  last,  and  she 
wanted  to  read  my  letter,  but  I  wouldn't  let  her ;  though 
there  wasn't  a  word  of  love  in  it,  was  there  '? 

I  do  not  see  that  it  makes  one  bit  of  difference  having 
you  for  a  lover.  I  have  always  told  you  everything  I 
knew  or  thought  or  felt,  and  now  I  cannot  do  any  more. 
My  heart  has  always  been  open  to  you  ever  since  we 
first  met,  and  it  would  be  absu.rd  for  me  to  pretend  to  have 
any  more  affection  for  you  now  than  I  had  before.  Of 
course,  I  am  glad  we  are  to  be  married  some  time, 
and  are  never  to  be  separated  all  our  lives  ;  but  truly, 
Martin,  I  had  never  dreamed  of  such  a  separation  as  pos- 
sible, until  your  letter  came  demanding  so  impetuously 
what  had  long  ago  been  conceded  without  any  request.  I 
am  afraid  I  am  not  a  proficient  in  this  matter  of  love. 
Amy,  who  is  such  a  proud,  self-reliant  creature,  says  she 
is  quite  ashamed  of  me  for  owning  that  I  loved  you  just 
as  much  before  as  after  you  asked  me  to  be  yours.  She 
says  she  would  never  admit  that  she  had  loved  one  who  had 
never  asked  her  love.  I  cannot  see  why.  I  did  love  you  ; 
it  was  right  that  I  should  love  you ;  and  so,  why  not  ad- 
mit it  ?  Whether  you  were  playmate,  brother,  friend, 
lover — it  was  all  one  to  me.  I  loved  you  just  as  much 
811 


312  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

under  one  name  as  the  other,  and  could  never  love  anybody 
else  as  well,  no  matter  what  name  they  assumed. 

Papa  has  told  me  all  about  the  queer  uiterview  he  had 
with  you,  and  I  laughed  till  I  cried  over  it.  Oh,  you  dear 
old  blunderhead !  couldn't  you  think  far  enough  to  know 
that  if  you  must  have  your  sister  transformed  into  a  sweet- 
heart you  must  treat  for  her  in  due  and  proper  form  ? 
Dear  me  !  what  fun  it  must  have  been  to  see  you  !  I 
made  papa  tell  me  over  and  over  again  just  what  you  said 
and  how  you  looked,  and  all  about  it.  And  then  to  think 
you  had  forgotten  all  about  poor  me  !  No,  I  know  you 
had  not  forgotten — only  just  put  me  aside  for  a  little  time 
while  you  did  a  man's  part.  I  will  not  be  jealous,  dear. 
Indeed,  I  am  glad  to  know  that  the  man  I  love  can  put 
away  that  love  which  is  a  part  of  himself  long  enough  to 
think  good  thoughts  and  wish  to  do  good  deeds  for  others. 
I  expect  my  lover  to  do  great  thuigs.  You  won  my  heart 
when  a  boy  by  your  courage,  and  I  could  never  love  a  man 
less  brave.  I  would  have  you  be  a  true  knight,  and 
do  noble  devoir  for  truth  and  righteousness.  I  cannot 
bear  to  think  that  you  should  sit  still  and  look  upon 
wrong  without  striving  to  undo  it.  I  would  rather  you 
should  die  in  battle  than  live  while  the  conflict  raged  and 
shun  its  dangers.  But  I  suppose  the  time  has  not  yet  come. 
I  would  not  have  you  seek  danger  merely  for  its  own 
sake,  but  if  there  should  be  any  need  for  your  aid  to  over- 
throw slavery,  I  should  gladly  give  you  up,  even  forever, 
in  such  a  holy  cause. 

I  am  almost  sorry  you  are  not  going  to  Kansas  with 
that  strange  Mr.  Brown,  whose  words  and  looks  still  thrill 
me  when  I  think  of  them.  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  were 
fascinated.  I  am  sure  if  I  were  a  boy  I  should  go  with  him, 
even  if  I  lost  my  sweetheart.  But  yo^i  must  not  do  it. 
That  would  be  very  naughty,  you  know.  Besides  that, 
you  have  promised,  and  so  cannot  go  now  even  if  you 
would.  Papa  is  no  doubt  right — of  course  he  is  right—' 
but  then  Mr.  Brown  is  right,  too. 


BY  AN  UNPRACTICED  HAND.  313 

What  do  you  think,  Martin  ?  Papa  told  me  a  secret  last 
night — but,  dear  me,  I  haven't  even  told  you  that  papa 
was  here,  have  I?  Here  I  have  been  going  on  just  as  if 
you  knevp  all  about  it,  and  you  didn't  know  a  word.  Well, 
he  says  I  may  write  you  just  as  long  letters  as  I  choose — 
that  the  closer  our  intercourse  now  the  sweeter  will  be  our 
love  hereafter.  Wasn't  that  kind  of  the  dear  old  bear? 
Do  you  know,  Martin,  I  am  sure  it  hurts  him  terribly  to 
give  me  up,  even  to  you.  You  know  I  am  all  he  has  had 
to  love  for  so  long — except  you,  who  are  indeed  more  like 
a  dear  foster-brother  than  anything  else — that  he  seems  as 
if  he  were  to  be  left  quite  alone  if  your  claim  is  to  be  al- 
lowed. It  seems  strange  that  he  has  so  buried  himself 
away  from  the  world.  He  must  have  worshipped  my  dear 
mamma,  and  yet  he  hardly  ever  speaks  of  her ;  but  when 
he  does,  his  eye  grows  moist  and  his  voice  husky  in  an  in- 
stant. I  asked  him  yesterday  why  we  never  saw  any  of 
our  relatives,  and  were  such  a  very  hermit's  lodge  there 
at  Sturmhold.  He  only  looked  at  me  very  tenderly  and 
said,  "Don't  be  impatient,  little  one.  You  will  know 
sometime — unless"  he  added  sadly,  "unless,  indeed,  God 
spai-e  you  the  knowledge,  as  I  hope  He  may." 

What  can  he  mean,  do  you  suj^pose  ?  It  must  be  some- 
thing dreadful.  It  made  me  cold  with  terror  when  I  heard 
it,  but  I  cannot  imagine  what  it  can  be.  Indeed,  I  am  not 
going  to  try.  I  am  sure  he  has  had  a  very  sorrowful  life, 
and  am  glad  I  have  been  able  to  give  him  some  pleasure. 
He  has  been  the  dearest,  best  papa  to  me  that  such  a 
naughty  girl  ever  had,  I  am'  sure.  He  never  would  scold 
me,  nor  let  anybody  else,  do  what  I  might. 

But  I  have  not  told  you  about  his  coming.  I  suppose 
you  knew  he  meant  to  come,  but  I  did  not,  until  he 
dropped  in  upon  us  here  two  days  ago — he  and  Jason — 
all  equipped  for  travel,  as  if  they  were  going  around  the 
world  ;  as,  for  that  matter,  they  may  be,  since  he  never 
knows  how  far  he  will  go  when  he  starts  out.  We  have 
had  just  splendid  times  while  he  has  been  here,     All  the 


ai4  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

gills  went  wild  over  my  distinguished-looking  papa,  and  I 
teased  him  about  it  until  he  blushed — well,  almost  as  badly 
as  you  did,  I  suppose,  when  papa  reminded  you  that  he  had 
a  daughter.  Even  Amy,  who  is  so  very  high-toned  and 
exclusive,  approved  him  entirely,  until  he  happened  to  ad- 
mit that  he  thought  slavery  was  a  very  great  evil.  Then 
she  w^ovild  no  more  of  him,  but  declared  it  treason  to  her 
"dear  native  South"  ever  to  hint  such  a  thing.  Papa  only 
smiled  in  his  gi'ave,  sad  way,  and  said:  "My  dear  young 
lady,  you  are  certain  to  learn  how  weak  and  vain  are  your 
woids.  The  time  is  not  far  distant  when  every  slaveholder 
will  echo  the  wish  of  one  of  the  bravest  and  best  of  them  : 
'I  would  to  God  that  the  foot  of  the  slave  had  never 
pressed  the  soil  of  our  American  continent.'  " 

You  ought  to  have  seen  how  scornful  and  proud  she 
looked.  You  see  she  is  an  immense  heiress,  though  she 
knows  nothing  of  her  estates  or  people.  Her  guardian 
sends  her  money,  and  she  thinks  the  South  is  just  the 
gate  of  Paradise,  as  indeed  it  must  be,  even  in  sjDite  of 
slavery. 

By  the  way,  papa  says — and  that's  the  secret  I  started 
to  tell  you  away  back — that  he  is  going  to  free  all  the 
slaves  he  owns.  He  says  it  will  cost  a  great  deal,  and 
may  leave  him  very  poor.  He  hoped  we — you  and  I,  dear — 
would  not  mind  that.  Only  think,  Martin,  as  if  we  cared 
whether  he  was  rich  or  poor,  as  long  as  we  had  him  to 
love !  I  just  sprang  into  his  lap,  put  my  arms  about 
his  neck  and  kissed  him  over  and  over  again,  and  told 
him  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  hint  such  a  thing.  I  knew 
you  would  be  glad  of  it,  and  he  said  he  believed  you 
would.  Oh,  I  tell  you,  Martin,  he  is  a  papa  worth  having  ; 
and  I  do  believe  he  loves  you  almost  as  much  as  he  does 
me.  He  started  for  New  York  this  morning,  and  the 
matron  gave  me  a  holiday  to  get  over  my  grief  at  parting  ; 
so  I  am  consoling  myself  by  writing  to  —  to  —  my  boy- 
lover — brother — I  declare,  Marty,  I  don't  know  what  to 
call  you.     I  am  afraid  I  haven't  a  bit  of  sentiment,  aren't 


BT  AN  UNPRACTIUED  HAND.  315 

you  ?  I  don't  see  why  I  always  have  so  much  to  write  to 
you  about.  But  now  I  have  no  one  else  to  write  to,  you 
must  expect  to  wear  out  your  eyes  reading  my  scrawlly 
letters.  You  know  tlie  teacher  says  my  handwriting  is 
the  worst  he  ever  saw,  and  growing  no  better  every  day, 
which  I  am  sure  is  his  fault,  for  I  practice  a  great  deal,  as 
you  know. 

Papa  says  I  may  not  hear  fi'om  him  in  as  much  as  six 
months,  or  perhaps  even  more.  What  an  age  to  wait !  Be- 
sides that,  I  cannot  write  to  him  after  this  week,  as  he 
does  not  know  where  he  will  be  ;  so  that  no  mail  will  reach 
him,  and  it  would  be  just  awful,  you  know,  to  have  one  of 
my  letters  going  all  round  the  world  hunting  for  him.  So 
I  am  to  wait,  and  be  patient  and  good  until  he  comes  back. 
If  he  does  not  come  by  vacation  I  am  to  go  and  stay  with 
your  mamma,  and  let  her  get  used  to  having  a  daughter,  I 
suppose.  At  least,  I  am  to  do  so  if  I  choose.  If  it  does 
not  suit  my  royal  pleasure,  I  am  to  stay  in  stately  solitude 
at  Sturmhold,  subject  to  your  father's  direction  and  con- 
trol. Papa  says  he  has  given  him  strict  charge  during 
his  absence,  to  look  after  me,  keep  me  out  of  mischief  and 
see  that  I  am  not  allowed  to  cry  after  the  moon.  When 
I  told  him  that  Mr.  Kortright  was  too  busy  with  all 
his  factories  and  mills  to  look  after  such  a  midget  as  I,  he 
pinched  my  cheek,  kissed  me,  and  said,  "Ah,  well,  he 
can  make  his  son  his  agent  thenf  So  it  seems  you  are  to 
be  my  guardian,  by  proxy  at  least.  I  suppose  I  shall  have 
to  be  very  good,  and  always  make  obeisance  to  you  and  say, 
"Please,  sir,  may  I  take  a  drive?"  every  day,  or  you  will 
shut  me  up  in  the  tower-room  and  sit  like  a  great  dragon 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  mounting  watch  and  ward  over 
my  donjon-keep.  By  the  way,  he  says  you  are  studying 
too  hard,  and  will  be  sure  to  kill  yourself,  as  so  many  of 
the  good  boys  do,  before  you  have  a  chance  to  accomplish 
anything  worthy  of  a  strong  man,  unless  you  give  your- 
self time  to  think  and  rest  and  grow  as  well  as  merely  to 
acquire.      I  do  think    that  is  the  foolishest   thing  in  the 


316  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

world,  and  I  mean  to  be  real  bad,  so  that  you  will  have  to 
look  after  me  all  the  time  and  not  study  a  bit  while  I  am 
at  home. 

Isn't  it  sad  about  poor  Lida  ?  I  shudder  when  I  think 
of  it.  Poor,  dear,  broken-hearted  creature  !  Papa  says 
she  was  a  beautiful  woman  when  she  was  young.  Ever 
since  I  can  remember  she  has  been  the  same  sad-faced, 
tearful  creature  you  have  known,  paying  little  attention 
to  any  one  but  me.  She  used  to  go  about  the  house  and 
weep  and  moan  whenever  papa  was  away,  so  that  I  was 
half  afraid  of  her  even  then.  After  a  while  she  seemed  to 
be  afraid  of  him,  and  for  a  time  before  she  ran  away  and 
bi'ought  us  together  so  strangely,  she  used  to  talk  and  act 
so  wildly  that  I  was  really  terrified.  Then  I  think  papa 
must  have  talked  very  plainly  to  her,  for  she  never  did  so 
any  more.  Indeed  she  very  much  changed,  being  just 
quietly  sorrowful  instead  of  boisterous  and  frenzied  in 
her  grief.  I  never  heard' her  say  a  word  about  herself  ex- 
cept to  promise  that  she  would  some  time  tell  me  all.  She 
used  to  utter  terrible  things  about  some  one — she  did  not 
say  who,  but  I  was  sure  she  meant  papa — but  has  never 
done  so  since  that  time.  Indeed  she  has  rarely  said  a  word 
against  any  one  since,  unless  slavery  was  inadvertently 
mentioned,  when  she  invariably  went  wild  at  once.  Oh, 
yes,  there  was  one  exception.  She  always  disliked  you, 
and  seemed  from  the  very  first  to  have  a  positive  spite 
against  you.  Poor  woman,  I  suppose  she  was  jealous  of 
the  love  her  pet  gave  to  her  boy-playmate.  It  is  almost  a 
mercy  that  she  cannot  realize  our  love  now.  I  am  sure  it 
would  grieve  her  nearly  to  death.  Just  to  think  how  her 
whole  life  has  been  burned  up  with  sorrow  because  of 
slavery !  It  cannot  be  that  anything  is  right  from  which 
comes  such  wrong.  Papa  says  it  has  all  been  because  she 
does  not  know  whether  she  is  black  or  white.  I  do  not 
see  how  that  can  be,  since  she  was  Uncle  George's  wife.  I 
asked  papa,  but  he  only  said,  "  Do  not  ask  me,  child — 
do  not  ever  try  to  know." 


BY  AN  UNPRAGTICED  HAND.  317 

I  am  sure  it  is  too  horrible  to  think  of.  No  wonder  the 
poor  tear-blanched  creature  became  insane.  I  should  think 
she  would  hate  everybody.  I  believe  I  would  rather  die 
than  meet  such  a  terrible  doom  as  hers.  Poor  thing  ! 
I  think  I  shall  stay  at  Sturmhold  all  the  time  Avhen  I 
come  home,  just  to  soothe  her  if  I  can.  I  am  glad  I  am  to 
graduate  next  summer,  so  that  she  can  have  something- 
better  than  a  hired  care-taker,  though  I  know  that  the 
servants  papa  has  left  will  do  all  that  they  can  for  her. 
I  shall  write  to  your  mother  and  tell  her  so,  in  order  that 
she  may  not  expect  me  to  stay  at  Paradise  Bay.  Poor 
Lida  !  my  dear  old  "Mammy,"  deserves  all  the  consola- 
tion she  can  gather  from  the  presence  of  one  whom  she 
has  served  with  such  a  foolish  fondness. 

Wasn't  it  kind  in  your  friend  Mr.  Clarkson  to  look  after 
her  when  her  mind  gave  way  so  suddenly  at  the  meet- 
ing ?  Papa  says  he  is  one  of  the  noblest  men  in  the  world, 
and  that  you  and  I  are  to  go  and  see  him,  or  at  least 
write  to  him,  on  the  day  after  I  graduate,  if  he  should 
not  return  before  that  time — which  I  am  sure  he  will. 
I  would  rather  never  graduate  at  all  than  do  so  without 
him  to  witness  my  triumph — I  mean  over  the  susceptible 
hearts  of  the  young  men  of  Burlingdale,  not  over  my  class- 
mates in  the  studies  of  the  "Sem."  There  are  twenty- 
three  in  our  class,  and  I  shall  be  at  the  very  top  of  the 
list — when  it  is  turned  upside  down !  You  see  I  leave  all 
the  scholarship  and  intellectual  eminence  to  you.  I  only 
yearn  for  nice  things  and — admiration.  I  am  determined 
to  break  more  hearts  here  in  Burlingdale  than  all  the  other 
girls  together,  in  revenge  for  having  surrendered  my  own 
heart  to  my  old  playmate  at  the  first  summons.  So  you 
had  better  look  out.  Do  not  think  that  your  too  easy 
victory  is  secure,  or  the  first  that  you  know  some  young 
Lochinvar  will  carry  me  away  over  these  brown  hills,  and 
you  will  be  "left  lamenting."  You  see  the  danger  of 
being  made   my  guardian  by  a  too  trustful   papa.     I  am 


318  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

sure  to  find  my  St.  George,  just  because   I  shall  have  a 
dragon  to  be  delivered  from,  you  know. 

I  declare,  it  is  dark.  If  you  cannot  find  time  to  read 
this  long  letter  during  the  week,  being  so  engaged  with 
Greek  and  Latin  and  other  more  attractive  and  important 
things,  you  can  keep  it  until  Sunday,  and  use  it  as  a  seda- 
tive for  an  afternoon  nap,  which  you  will  no  doubt  greatly 
need  before  you  finish  it.     As  ever,  Hilda. 

P.  S.— 9  P.  M.— The  bell  will  ring  for  the  lights  to  be 
put  out  in  a  minute  and  I  must  give  my  letter  to  the 
teacher,  who  comes  around  to  see  tliat  it  is  done,  in  order 
that  it  may  be  mailed  in  the  morning.  I  have  only  time 
to  say  God  bless  the  naughty  boy  that  "wants  to  be  ray 
lover."  H. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

A    PUNIC     PEACE. 

A  THIRD  of  a  century  before  the  time  of  which  we 
write,  a  strange  treaty  had  been  ratified  between  Liberty 
and  Slavery,  Out  of  tlie  territory  tlien  recently  acquired 
from  France  it  was  proposed  to  erect  a  new  state. 
Should  Slavery  or  Freedom  prevail  within  its  borders  ? 
This  was  the  question  that,  in  1820,  arose  in  the  minds 
of  people  and  legislators  when  it  was  proposed  to  make 
out  of  the  vast,  unbounded  territory  that  lay  beyond  the 
Mississippi,  the  ncAV  State  of  Missouri. 

The  circumstances  attending  this  first  actual  introduc- 
tion of  the  slavery  question  into  national  politics  are 
worthy  of  something  more  than  a  passing  notice  at  the 
hands  of  the  student  of  the  great  movement  which  for 
more  than  forty  years  thereafter  gave  tone  and  color  to 
almost  ever}^  event  of  our  political  history.  It  should 
be  noted,  first  of  all,  that  the  political  instrumentalities 
of  that  day  were  entirely  different  from  those  with  which 
we  are  now  familiar.  The  country  was  in  the  transi- 
tion period,  when  personal  power  and  individual  popu- 
larity, as  means  by  which  political  bodies  were  made 
to  cohere,  were  about  to  give  way  to  the  organizations 
which  have  since  been  known  as  parties.  Up  to  that 
time  such  a  thing  as  a  party,  in  the  modern  acceptation 
of  that  term  in  America,  had  been  unknown.  It  was  a 
development  that  grew  out  of  the  established  facts  in 
our  history,  however,  as  naturally  as  the  oak  is  evolved 
from  the  acorn.  Such  a  thing  was  not  contemplated  in 
the  original  plan  of  our  government. 
319 


320  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

English  political  writers  are  wont  to  sneer  at  our  Con- 
stitution because  it  is  a  written  one.  They  declare  it  to 
be  inelastic,  rigid  and  not  adaptable  to  circumstances. 
They  claim  that  it  is  an  invention  and  not  a  growth ; 
that  it  limits  progress  instead  of  being  shaped  by  events. 
This  charge  is  not  only  fallacious  but  absurd.  Yet  it  has 
been  very  generally  admitted  by  political  writers.  A 
written  constitution  is  only  the  formulation  of  previous 
growth.  All  that  the  English  people  had  acquired  of 
civil  and  religious  liberty,  as  well  as  all  that  the  colonies 
had  learned  before  the  Kevolution  and  during  the  battle- 
heated  years  of  that  momentous  struggle — may  be  found 
in  the  weighty  provisions  of  our  organic  law.  Not  onlj'^ 
does  it  mark  the  antecedent  growth,  but  experience 
has  shown  that  a  written  constitution  is  far  more  easily 
amended  and  improved  than  an  uuAvritten  one  whose 
first  distinctive  feature  is  the  absurd  declaration  that  it 
is  already  the  perfection  of  human  wisdom  and  universal 
justice.  The  written  form  supplies  to  a  healthy  degi-ee 
the  place  of  that  reverence  for  rank  and  tradition 
which  in  England  counterbalances  the  progressive  ten- 
dency of  the  people.  Lacking  this  inherited  check  upon 
the  impulse  of  the  moment,  the  barriers  of  our  Constitu- 
tion were  designed,  and  have  proved  themselves  sufficient, 
to  restrain  the  popular  impulse  until  the  passing  senti- 
ment has  grown  and  ripened  into  a  mature  conviction. 
Then  they  are  swept  away.  A  written  Constitution, 
Avhile  it  is  the  bulwark  behind  which  conservatism  ral- 
lies its  forces  to  prevent  sudden  and  ill-advised  change, 
yet  lends  itself  to  well-considered  amendment  with  a 
readiness  that  the  uuMa-itten  Constitution  of  England 
has  never  displayed.  The  one  is  changed  bj'  the  will  of 
a  requisite  majority  of  voters  in  two-thirds  of  the  states. 
Public  opinion  has  only  to  express  itself  with  sufficient 
emphasis  to  transform  at  once  the  written  Constitution 
into  perfect  accord  with  the  popular  will.     The  unwrit- 


A  PUNIC  PEACE.  321 

ten  one,  upon  the  contrary,  despite  the  fact  that  its  chief 
boast  is  its  flexibility,  must  wait  until  a  generation  of 
judges  have  grown  up  under  the  influence  of  some  new 
thought  before  its  domains  can  be  enlarged.  The  one 
permits  an  immediate  expression  of  the  public  will ;  the 
other  only  a  remote  reflection  of  it. 

Our  Constitution  is  no  stranger  even  to  that  uncon- 
conscious  change  which  comes  only  by  a  modified  public 
sentiment  with  regard  to  specific  provisions.  Of  this 
peculiar  adaptability  of  our  fundamental  law  to  vary- 
ing conditions  and  unanticipated  development,  without 
awaiting  the  process  of  formal  amendment,  there  could 
be  no  better  illustration  than  the  growth  of  that  political 
machinery  which  we  call  party. 

In  the  Constitution  devised  by  the  fathers  no  pro- 
vision was  made  for  any  such  instrumentality  for  ascer- 
taining the  will  of  the  people  as  a  political  party.  Indeed, 
it  was  not  anticipated  that  the  popular  will  would  be 
directly  appealed  to  for  a  decision  of  public  questions. 
It  was  intended  that  the  people  should  choose  rulers. 
It  was  believed  that "  men  would  be  elected  to  legis- 
lative and  executive  positions,  not  by  reason  of  any 
previously  expressed  opinions  upon  specific  questions, 
or  because  of  their  known  inclination  toward  any  par- 
ticular line  of  public  policy,  but  simply  because  of  their 
capacity,  integrity  and  general  fitness  for  the  duty  of 
framing  or  executing  laws.  These  men  were  not  ex- 
pected to  perform  the  people's  Avill,  but  to  secure  the 
general  welfare  by  the  exercise  of  their  own  discretion, 
irrespective  of  what  their  constituents  might  desire.  It 
was  believed  that  the  populace  Avas  not  always  to  be 
trusted  to  know  wlmt  Avas  good  for  itself,  miich  less 
what  would  truly  subserve  the  interests  of  the  future, 
and  could  only  be  allowed  to  choose  men  to  think  and 
act  for  it.  The  idea  was  a  beautiful  one,  but  from  the 
very  first  it  was  an  absolute  failure.     The  people  had 


323  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

taken  up  the  notion  of  self-government  in  dead  earnest. 
They  construed  the  "  Declaration  of  Independence"  lit- 
erally, and  insisted  upon  governing  themselves  in  their 
own  way.  They  rebelled  against  the  idea  of  sending 
men  to  represent  their  power  merely,  and  demanded  that 
they  should  represent  also  their  will.  Almost  before  the 
new  government  had  been  put  into  operation  it  had  been 
so  extended  by  the  force  of  universal  construction  as  to 
change  its  whole  character.  The  people  insisted  upon 
deciding  all  important  questions  for  themselves  and  in 
advance  of  their  determination  by  the  law-making 
power.  Instead  of  selecting  a  man  purely  because  of 
his  personal  fitness  for  the  task  of  legislation,  they  also 
inquired  if  his  opinions  upon  questions  likely  to  arise 
for  his  action  were  in  harmony  with  those  of  the  ma- 
jority whose  servant  they  persisted  in  considering  him. 
Instead  of  choosing  for  their  chief  executive  the  man 
who  was  deemed  the  greatest,  wisest  and  most  patri- 
otic of  his  time,  they  began  to  prefer  this  one  or  that 
because  of  his  peculiar  views  in  regard  to  the  con- 
struction of  the  Constitution,  the  limits  of  state  and 
federal  power,  and  the  relation  of  the  executive  to  the 
legislative  and  judicial  branches.  This  was  neither  in- 
tended nor  foreseen  by  the  framers  of  the  Constitution. 
Indeed,  its  forms  were  expressly  designed  to  forestall 
such  a  contingency.  But  the  people  were  not  to  be 
balked  of  self-government.  The  electoral  college,  which 
was  devised  as  a  bulwark  against  any  such  ultra-demo- 
cratic tendency  upon  the  part  of  the  masses,  lent  itself 
to  their  will  as  readily  as  the  intersecting  streets  and 
avenues  of  the  capital,  originally  designed  to  promote 
defensive  operations  against  anticipated  popular  tumult, 
lend  themselves  to-day  to  peaceful  adornment. 

Out  of  this  irrepressible  inclination  of  the  people  for 
the  immediate  exercise  of  the  functions  of  government 
grew  the  American  idea  of  party.     In  order  to  make  the 


A  PUNIC  PEACE.  32P, 

electoral  college  the  simple  recorder  of  the  will  of  the 
majority,  concert  of  action  became  necessary.  Men  who 
were  pledged  to  vote  for  certain  popular  favorites  were 
at  first  presented  in  groups  by  voluntary  promoters  of 
the  interests  of  the  aspirant  in  order  to  secure  for  him 
the  popular  support.  Thus  the  elector,  instead  of  being 
such  in  fact,  became  simply  an  agent  of  those  by  whom 
he  was  chosen  and  was  bound  in  honor  to  do  their  will, 
even  though  his  own  judgment  and  inclination  pointed 
otherwise.  To  apply  the  same  method  to  all  other 
offices  Avas  but  a  natural  step  toward  the  seizure  of  all 
power  by  the  people.  When  this  was  effected  only  one 
thing  more  remained  to  be  done,  and  that  was  to  select 
the  candidate  for  whom  the  consolidated  vote  should  be 
cast  by  some  concerted  action.  The  convention  of  dele- 
gates chosen  by  voluntary  associations  of  voters,  autho- 
rized to  prepare  a  declaration  of  principles,  and  select 
candidates  for  the  support  of  those  who  approve  the 
doctrines  of  the  platform,  was  then  unheard  of  This 
was  all  that  was  needed  for  the  complete  development 
of  the  American  party  as  it  now  is,  and  the  transform- 
ation of  the  Constitution  from  an  instrument  designed 
to  prevent  concert  of  action  among  the  voters  into  a 
plan  of  government  that  renders  unorganized  political 
action  the  height  of  individual  stupidity.  Party  organi- 
zation, while  it  has  in  a  measure  made  the  exercise  of 
individual  choice  impossible,  has  rendered  the  will  of 
the  majority  much  more  effectual.  The  voter  loses  some- 
thing of  free  will,  but  the  people  gain  immensely  in  power 
by  this  growth,  which  fastened  itself  upon  our  Constitu- 
tion in  defiance  of  the  intent  of  its  framers,  and  in  ac- 
cord with  the  genius  of  a  people  bent  upon  carrying 
the  principle  of  self-government  to  its  legitimate  end. 

At  that  time  slavery  had  not  yet  developed  into  a  na- 
tional question.  Public  opinion  had  not  yet  crystallized 
for  or  against  it  as  an  institution  of  the  future.     Here 


324  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

and  there,  throughout  all  sections,  were  found  men  far- 
seeing  enough  to  dread  its  continuance  and  growth.  Its 
abolition  in  the  states  of  the  Xorth  had  been  accom- 
jalished  with  very  little  agitation.  The  proportion  of 
slave-owners  was  too  few,  and  the  general  tone  of  the 
public  mind  too  evidently  hostile  to  make  the  struggle 
either  prolonged  or  doubtful.  Perhaps  this  ver}'  fact 
tended  to  divert  the  public  mind  from  the  importance  of 
the  institution  in  those  states  where  this  condition  of 
affairs  was  reversed.  The  ease  with  which  it  had  been 
banished  from  Northern  States  led  to  the  belief  that 
it  would  gradually  disappear  even  from  its  Southern 
strongholds.  It  was  generally  supposed  that  the  growth 
of  these  communities  in  population,  in  commercial  and 
manufacturing  enterprises,  would  sooner  or  later  so  over- 
power the  agricultural  slave-interest  that  the  mere  fact 
of  its  false  economy  and  baneful  influence  upon  the 
white  race  would  secure  ils  voluntary  extinction.  It  was 
believed  that  if  confined  within  specific  limits  it  must 
sooner  or  later  die  from  the  action  of  its  own  exhaustive 
forces.  A  constant  accession  of  new  territory,  a  fresh 
supply  of  virgin  soil,  was  looked  upon  as  an  essential 
element  of  its  continuance.  It  was  for  this  reason 
among  others  that  not  a  few  of  all  parties  throughout 
the  country  had  been  opposed  to  the  "Louisiana  Pur- 
chase." For  the  first  time  in  our  history  public  atten- 
tion was  directed  to  slavery  as  a  national  question  by 
the  acquisition  of  this  territory,  and  the  inquir}'^  at 
once  arose.  Is  it  to  be  "free"  or  "slave"?  Were 
the  already  exhausted  areas  of  slavery  to  be  enlarged 
by  newer  and  richer  domains  ?  Was  the  over-crowded 
slave  population  of  Virginia  to  find  a  profitable  outlet 
in  the  fertile  fields  of  the  far  Southwest  ?  Was  the 
market  value  of  the  slave,  which  had  already  begun 
to  depreciate,  to  l)e  at  once  enhanced  by  opening  up 
fresh  fields  in  which  his  labor  might  be  profitably  em- 


A  PUNIC  PEACE.  325 

ployed  ?  "Was  the  young  republic  to  give  a  still  greater 
proportion  of  its  area  to  slavery  ?  Was  slave-breeding 
and  slave-trading  to  become  as  much  a  part  of  our  in- 
ternal economy  as  stock-raising  or  sheep-farming  ? 

These  questions  had  but  vaguely  shaped  themselves  in 
the  public  mind  when  it  was  proposed  that  still  another 
state  should  be  carved  out  of  the  "•Louisiana  Purchase." 
Of  the  aspirants  for  presidential  honors  at  that  time 
there  was  perhaps  but  one  who  did  not  look  with  dread 
to  the  agitation  of  this  question.  Whatever  its  results 
to  the  nation  at  large,  its  immediate  effect  upon  their 
individual  prospects  was  of  so  uncertain  a  character  as 
to  render  its  discussion  at  least  unadvisable  so  far  as 
they  were  concerned.  As  it  chanced,  the  most  strenu- 
ous advocates  of  slavery  among  these  presidential  as- 
pirants— at  least  those  having  the  most  direct  personal 
interest  in  the  subject — looked  for  the  bulk  of  their  sup- 
port to  those  states  of  the  North  in  Avhich  the  feeling  in 
regard  to  slavery  was  already,  becoming  most  clearly  de- 
fined and  evidently  hostile  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
those  whose  sentiments  had  hitherto  been  most  out- 
spoken upon  the  question  of  personal  liberty  and  right 
looked  for  much  of  their  support  to  the  states  of  the 
South  in  which  slavery  was  most  strongly  seated.  Oddly 
enough,  the  Southern  slaveholder  w^as,  in  theory,  the 
most  rampant  of  personal-liberty-loving  republicans.  Of 
their  own  individual  rights  no  class  of  men  were  ever 
more  jealous.  Not  one  iota  of  the  right  to  rule  would 
they  abandon  on  any  consideration.  The  flexing  of  the 
Constitution  from  its  original  purpose  and  intent  was 
very  largely  their  work.  The  barriers  which  stood 
between  the  citizen  and  the  citadel  of  federal  power 
they  labored  with  angry  vehemence  to  tear  down.  The 
very  imperiousness  that  made  them  masters  led  them 
to  prize  the  privilege  of  being  co-equal  rulers  of  the 
nation.    Counting  the  "all  men  "of  the  Declaration  as 


y26  HOT  PLOWSHAUES. 

intended  to  embrace  only  the  white  race,  and  indeed 
only  such  individuals  of  the  white  race  as  might  be 
given  the  privilege  of  participating  in  the  government, 
they  were  untiring  in  their  efforts  to  secure  and  possess 
this  privilege.  Eegarding  human  chattelism  as  a  divine 
institution,  they  were  yet  peculiar  champions  of  indi- 
vidual right  in  the  direction  of  the  government.  Denying 
the  African's  claim  to  the  meanest  of  human  rights,  they 
Avere  ever  ready  to  fight  to  the  death  for  the  most  insig- 
nificant of  individual  privileges  for  the  Caucasian.  Even 
when  they  doubted  the  policy  of  slavery,  they  would  not 
yield  the  right  to  enslave. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  while  the  tide  of  public 
sentiment  in  the  North  was  already  setting  quietly  but 
strongly  against  the  extension  and  perpetuation  of  sla- 
very ;  Avhile  the  legislature  of  Virginia  was  seeking  to 
find  some  method  by  which  the  increase  of  slave  popula- 
tion within  her  borders  Tiiight  be  checked — these  tenta- 
tive movements  had  not  yet  assumed  sufficient  form  and 
consistency  to  justify  any  of  the  presidential  aspirants 
in  making  this  question  a  material  part  of  the  canvass 
then  commencing.  It  was  well  understood  that  if  once 
seriously  broached,  it  might  produce  results  which  no 
one  could  foresee.  There  were  men,  even  at  that  time, 
who  were  willing  to  undergo  persecution  in  order  to 
aAvaken  the  public  conscience  to  a  thorough  comprehen- 
sion of  what  they  deemed  an  evil  of  unparalleled  magni- 
tude. The  slaveholdiug  element  was  always  fierce  and 
impetuous — ^jealous  to  the  extreme  of  everything  that 
bore  the  guise  of  interference  with  what  they  deemed  a 
right  conceded  and  guaranteed  by  the  federal  compact. 

When  the  territory  now  known  as  Missouri,  in  which 
slavery  had  already  taken  up  its  abode,  and  where  it 
had  during  the  period  elapsing  since  its  acquisition 
been  tolerated  and  protected  by  the  laws  of  the  land — 
when  this  territory  applied    for  permission    to   assume 


A  PUNIC  PEACE.  327 

organic  form  as  a  state  of  the  American  Union,  this 
troublesome  question  threatened  to  assume  definite 
shape  and  become  a  national  issue.  Everyone  was 
aware  of  a  strong  undertow  of  feeling  throughout  the 
Northern  States  which  was  hostile  to  the  extension  of 
the  territorial  limits  of  slavery.  Everyone  knew  that 
the  South  would  rise  en  masse.,  without  regard  to  politi- 
cal affiliation  or  preference,  to  demand  the  admission 
of  this  territory  as  a  slave  state.  Threats  of  secession 
were  freely  made  should  this  not  be  conceded.  That 
there  were  some  who  desired  to  precipitate  the  conflict 
which  afterwards  occurred,  there  is  no  doubt.  There 
were  many  upon  both  sides  of  the  question  who  believed 
it  was  unadvisable  to  delay  a  final  determination  of  it, 
there  can  be  no  doubt,  but — as  is  nearly  always  the  case 
with  a  matter  the  result  of  which  is  so  momentous 
and  doubtful — the  policy  of  delay  prevailed.  The  ad- 
vocates of  slavery  and  the  champions  of  freedom 
among  the  people's  representatives  in  Congress  assem- 
bled, fixed  upon  a  compromise,  satisfactory  to  neither 
but  serving  for  the  time  being  to  keep  the  main  ques- 
tion in  abeyance.  It  was  agreed  between  these  self- 
constituted  plenipotentiaries  that  all  of  the  untrodden 
West,  north  of  a  certain  line  prolonged  until  it  should 
strike  the  shores  of  the  Pacific,  should  from  and  after 
the  passage  of  that  bill  be  solemnly  dedicated  to  free- 
dom, and  that  all  south  of  said  line  should  constitute 
the  undisturbed  domain  of  slavery.  It  was  a  negotia- 
tion made  by  those  who  had  no  power  to  treat ;  a  dedi- 
cation made  by  those  who  had  no  right  to  grant ;  a 
compromise  by  which  it  was  proposed  to  bind  two  pow- 
ers which  had  given  no  authority  to  those  who  assumed 
to  act  for  them.  iSTevertheless,  the  treaty  was  con- 
cluded, and  the  solemn  farce  was  heralded  throughout 
the  i^orth  as  a  triumph  of  liberty,  and  at  the  South  as  a 
victory  won  for  slavery.     Two  little  sections  of  an  act 


338  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

of  Congress  passed  into  history  under  the  name  and 
style  of  the  "Missouri  Compromise,"  It  was  said  to 
be  morally  ])inding  upon  the  North,  as  the  especial 
representative  of  liberty.  It  was  claimed  to  be  a  guar- 
antee in  behalf  of  the  South,  as  the  impersonation  of 
slavery.  It  was  accounted  by  almost  all  a  final  de- 
termination of  a  vexatious,  and  possibly  dangerous, 
question. 

For  a  third  of  a  century  this  fiction  was  maintained. 
Slavery  and  freedom  mustered  undisturbed  on  their  re- 
spective sides  of  this  imaginary  line.  Freedom  occupied 
without  objection  the  far  Northwest.  Slavery  laid  its 
hands  upon  the  farther  South.  Again,  at  the  period  of 
which  we  write,  the  hostile  forces,  now  more  definitely 
defined  and  thoroughly  organized  approached  the  flimsy 
barrier  which  had  been  erected  to  keep  them  apart. 
The  territory  now  occupied  ])y  the  States  of  Kansas 
and  Nebraska  was  the  tempting  bait  that  invited  to  a 
renewal  of  the  conflict. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE   RECONNOISSANCE    IN  FORCE. 

The  struggle  between  the  two  opposing  ideas,  as  we 
have  seen,  had  grown  more  and  more  intense,  until  it 
had  culminated  in  the  victory  of  the  Southern  idea  in 
the  passage  and  enforcement  of  the  Fugitive  Slave  law. 
Their  triumph  seemed  to  have  made  drunk  the  oppo- 
nents of  the  Abolition  movement.  The  insignificance 
of  the  vote  polled  by  the  "Free  Democracy"  in  the 
Presidential  struggle  of  1852,  as  well  as  the  overwhelm- 
ing success  of  the  declared  exponent  of  the  policy  on 
which  that  law  was  based,  no  doubt  did  very  much  to 
induce  the  friends  of  slavery  to  believe  that  any  demand 
they  might  make  would  not  only  be  conceded  by  their 
party  but  submitted  to  by  the  nation.  When  the  "Mis- 
souri Compromise"  was  adopted,  it  was  not  generally  be- 
lieved that  the  region  west  of  the  west  line  of  Missouri 
and  north  of  36°  30'  north  latitude  would  ever  be  of 
any  value.  Its  distance  from  the  great  markets  of  the 
world,  under  the  conditions  then  affecting  the  problem 
of  transportation,  was  supposed  to  render  it  unavailable 
even  for  stock-raising.  The  great  Northwest  was  then 
a  wilderness.  Where  the  garden  of  the  world  now 
is,  there  was  silence.  Illinois  was  just  born  into  the 
sisterhood  of  States.  Where  now  sits  the  Queen  City  of 
the  West — a  miracle  of  busy  life,  there  was  only  a  slender 
stockade  and  a  little  cluster  of  huts.  The  seats  of 
empire  that  lay  beyond  were  hardly  deemed  habitable. 
The  prairie  was  thought  to  be  bleak  and  untamable  ;  the 
forest  dark  and  impenetrable.  What  lay  to  the  south- 
329 


330  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

ward  of  the  line  of  compromise  was  known  to  be  fertile ; 
what  was  to  the  northward  was  believed  to  be  sterile. 
So  Slavery  exulted  in  the  bargain  that  was  made,  be- 
lieving that  the  rich  domain  it  secured  to  her  would 
easily  counterbalance  in  power  the  possibilities  of  what 
had  been  surrendered. 

This  contest  between  freedom  and  slavery  for  the 
power  to  be  derived  from  the  statocracy  of  the  national 
domain  is  an  interesting  and  instructive  chapter  of  our 
history.  Of  the  thirteen  original  States,  six  were  either 
free  or  soon  became  so,  while  the  others  retained  the  in- 
stitution of  slavery  in  the  territory  belonging  to  them. 
The  first  State  to  be  created  out  of  the  unorganized  terri- 
tory of  the  nation  added  still  another  to  the  prepondera- 
ting power  of  slavery.  It  was  Kentucky,  in  1791, 
counterbalanced,  in  the  same  year,  by  Vermont,  which 
had  never  known  slavery  in  its  limits.  Tennessee  fol- 
lowed in  1796,  with  the  "institution"  inherited  from 
her  mother,  North  Carolina.  After  a  furious  strug- 
gle, Ohio,  with  a  free  Constitution,  was  carved  out 
of  the  public  domain  in  1802.  In  1812  Louisiana  re- 
stored once  more  the  original  preponderance  of  slavery. 
In  1816  Indiana  added  another  name  to  the  roll  of 
freedom.     Mississippi   restored  the  former  condition   in 

1817.  Illinois  took    her    place    on  the    other    side    in 

1818.  Slavery  brought  forward  Alabama  in  1819,  and 
freedom,  after  a  desperate  contest,  secured  a  place  for 
Maine  in  1820.  Thitherto  the  two  hostile  forces  had 
achieved  alternate  advantages.  Then  Slavery  increased 
her  lead  by  two — Missouri,  in  1821,  and  Arkansas,  in 
1836.  JSIichigan  offset  one  of  these  in  1837,  only  to  be 
counterbalanced  by  Florida  in  1845,  the  twin  of  Iowa, 
admitted  upon  the  same  day — the  result  of  a  bargain 
between  the  two  great  powers.  Texas,  conquered  for 
the  express  purpose  of  preserving  the  balance  of  power 
in  favor  of  slavery,  was  admitted  in  1815,  and  balanced 


THE  BEGONNOISSANGE  IN  FORCE.  331 

by  Wisconsin  in  1847.  Then  came  California  in  1850,  the 
people  taking  the  matter  into  their  own  hands  and 
coming  to  the  national  legislature  with  a  voluntary  con- 
stitution framed  and  adopted  without  specific  legal 
authority,  but  expressly  excluding  slavery  from  her 
soil.  With  this  in  their  hands  the  freemen  of  the  new 
El  Dorado  demanded  admission  to  the  family  of  States 
and  could  not  be  refused.  Then  the  roll  of  the  slave 
states  was  complete.  This  alternation  was  by  no  acci- 
dent of  growth.  By  long  continued  yielding  it  came  to 
be  regarded  as  a  sort  of  common  law  that  the  equipoise 
should  be  thus  maintained.  In  sixty  years  nine  slave 
states  and  eight  in  which  bondage  was  forbidden  had 
been  added  to  the  list  of  constituent  commonwealths. 
That  portion  of  the  public  domain  which  had  been 
assigned  to  slavery  by  the  Compromise,  so  far  as  it  was 
then  available,  or  was  likely  soon  to  become  so,  was 
exhausted.  On  the  other  hand  the  Northwest  was 
already  gravid  with  new  states.  Minnesota  and  Oregon 
tv^ere  clamoring  at  the  national  portal.  The  tide  of  civi- 
lization had  poured  across  the  Mississippi,  following  the 
footsteps  of  the  modern  Argonauts.  The  desert  trail 
was  found  to  be  lined  with  flowers.  The  prairies 
proved  to  be  rich  Avith  the  mould  of  the  ages.  Where 
the  buffalo  had  wandered  undisturbed  the  smoke  of  the 
settler's  cabin  arose.  The  church  and  the  school-house, 
the  infallible  insignia  of  a  New  England  civilization, 
were  almost  hidden  by  the  giant  growth  of  maize.  The 
boundless  meadows  lay  laughing  in  the  sunshine.  The 
riches  of  the  East  were  poverty  compared  with  this. 
Liberty  discerned  its  worth,  and  sent  her  sons  to  enter 
in  and  occupy.  Along  all  its  creeks  and  rivers  ;  in  the 
little  belts  of  woodland,  wherever  thrift  and  foresight 
could  discover  especial  excellence,  there  the  hardy 
Northern  pioneer  built  his  sod-cabin  or  lighted  his 
camp-fire  and  staked  his  claim.     Already  this  territory 


332  HO  T  PLO  W SHARES. 

was  swarming  with  settlers  and  would  soon  be  ready 
for  admission  as  a  State. 

Under  these  circumstances,  Slavery  turned  its  eyes 
eagerly  upon  the  fertile  plains.  Only  the  Compromise 
of  1820  stood  between  it  and  this  gem  of  the  national 
domain.  Frail  barrier  !  Hitherto  it  had  been  permitted 
to  stand  because  there  had  been  no  desire  to  go  beyond. 
Now  that  the  lust  of  possession  tempted,  it  must  be 
swept  away.  Upon  this  question  the  South  was  not  a 
unit,  but  she  had  so  often  triumphed  by  threats  that 
she  never  doubted  their  potency.  So  she  demanded 
flatly  that  the  clauses  excluding  slaveiy  from  the  terri- 
tories west  of  Missoui'i  and  north  of  its  southern  line, 
should  be  absolutely  repealed.  The  North,  which  had 
sullenly  submitted  to  the  Fugitive  Slave  law,  burst  into 
a  strange  fever  of  wrath  at  this  demand.  The  Compro- 
mise, which  had  been  always  thitherto  the  Aveapon  of 
the  South,  they  now  seized  in  their  own  defense.  Ko 
one  had  the  hardihood  in  serious  earnest  to  claim  that 
it  was  not  repealable.  The  power  that  debarred  had 
also  an  undoubted  right  to  admit  it.  Some  did  claim 
that  the  act  of  1820  was,  in  some  sense,  a  consecration  of 
the  soil  to  freedom,  and  therefore,  by  the  common  law 
of  liberty,  inviolate ;  but  the  theory  was  worthier  of  the 
domains  of  sentiment  than  the  forum  of  reason.  The 
South,  exultant  in  her  late  success,  pressed  for  her  legal 
right  to  clear  from  the  path  of  every  citizen  all  obstacles 
to  his  occupation  of  the  common  national  domain.  The 
course  of  reasoning  she  adopted  upon  this  question  may 
be  summarized,  thus : 

1.  The  Congress  of  1820,    was  not,  and   could  not  have 

been,  authorized   to   make  a  permanent  exclusiou  of 
slavery  from  any  part  of  the  national  domain. 

2.  Every  citizen  of  every  state  has  a  right  to  carry  with 

Jiini  into  the  unorganized  territory  of  the  United  States 


THE  REC0NN0I88ANCE  IN  FORCE.  833 

all  the  rights  aiid  privileges  with  which  he  is  clothed 
as  a  citizen  of  such  state. 
3.  He  has  the  right  to  take  with  him  any  property  he  may 
possess  in  the  state  from  which  he  migrates,  to  hold 
and  enjoy  the  same  in  the  territory,  and  to  be  pro- 
tected in  such  enjoyment  by  the  federal  law. 
To  this  the  North  offered  : 

1.  The    answer  of  the    Abolitionists :     Slavery  being   an 

evil  if  not  a  crime,  if  the  Constitution  recognizes  it 
at  all  it  is  only  to  permit  its  existence  in  those  states 
where  it  was  at  the  time  of  its  adoption,  and  gave  no 
right  to  establish  it  in  territory  not  embraced  in  their 
original  limits. 

2.  The  response  of  the  more  conservative  Northron,  who 

recognized  slavery  as  a  legal  fact  in  the  slave  states  but 
regarded  it  as  an  evil  to  be  fought  with  every  lawful 
weapon,  and  to  be  eradicated  peacefully  and  legally, 
as  soon  as  possible  :  that  the  South,  having  assented 
to  the  Compromise  of  1820,  and  received  benefits  there- 
under in  the  creation,  practically  without  opposition, 
of  eight  slave  states  morally  bound  by  its  conditions. 
To  these  the  South  rejoined  : 

1.  We  have,  both  as  citizens  and  as  states,  the  same  rights 

in  the  public  domain  as  you.  You  are  not  shut  out  of 
any  part  of  it ;  neither  should  we  be.  Your  rights  of 
property  are  secured  to  you  in  Texas  ;  in  like  manner 
ours  should  be  secured  to  us  in  Kansas. 

2.  The  Compromise  of  1820  was  a  simple  exclusion.     We 

were  barred  from  an  empire.  You  suffered  no  detri- 
ment therefrom.  The  non-slaveholder — the  free  labor- 
ei" — was  not  excluded  from  an  inch  of  our  soil.  Because 
we  have  submitted  to  this  injustice  for  thirty  years 
and  more,  we  are  not  barred  from  i-eclaiming  a  right, 
the  resumption  of  which  can  injure  no  one.  We  do 
not  object  to  your  entering  the  territory ;  by  what 
right  do  you  seek  to  exclude  us  and  our  possessions  ? 


§34  HO  T  PLO  WSIIARES. 

These  objections  were  not  fully  met.  The  North  was 
hardly  in  a  mood  for  argument.  The  hostility  to  slavery 
which  had  spread  and  smouldered  year  after  year,  now 
burst  all  bounds.  By  some  strange  process  the  institu- 
tion had  become  queerly  personified  in  the  Northern 
mind.  It  Avas  almost  entirely  disassociated  from  the 
Southern  people  as  individuals.  It  was  a  reality,  a 
thing,  a  material  existence  which  they  looked  upon  as 
doing,  claiming  and  resisting  quite  independently  of  its 
mere  instruments  and  agents — the  people  of  the  South. 
Against  this  intangible  yet  conscious  essence  the  heart 
of  the  North  was  aglow  with  wrath.  The  Fugitive  Slave 
law  had  been  looked  upon  as  a  step  of  defiant  aggression 
on  the  part  of  the  hated  institution.  Their  instinctive 
love  of  law  and  the  inherited  reverence  for  the  Consti- 
tution had  endured  even  this  exasperating  strain ;  but 
underneath  the  calm  exterior  there  were  sullen  mur- 
murings  that  should  Kave  warned  the  friends  of  slavery 
that  they  could  go  no  further.  Unfortunately  the 
people  of  the  South  had  never  idealized  the  institution 
of  slavery  so  as  to  disassociate  themselves  from  it.  It 
was  their  right — their  institution^and  liostility  thereto 
not  only  implied  but  actually  covered  and  concealed 
a  positive  animosity  against  all  who  were  beneficially 
interested  in  it.  So  opposition  to  slaveiy  meant  to  them 
hatred  of  the  South,  and  they  urged  their  right  to  carry 
slavery  into  the  territories  all  the  more  fiercely  because 
of  the  unreasonable  prejudice  against  themselves  which 
they  believed  to  lie  at  the  bottom  of  opposition  to  it. 
They  were  undoubtedly  right  in  their  claim  so  far  as  the 
Constitution  was  concerned.  The  better  reasoning  was 
in  favor  of  their  claim  for  equal  enjoyment  of  the  public 
domain  ;  but  the  hostility  to  slavery  had  reached  that 
point  where  one  more  act  of  aggression  on  its  part  was 
sure  to  provoke  a  conflict,  and  when  the  conflict  came 
slavery  was  certain  to  go  to  the  Avail. 


THE  REG0NN0IS8ANCE  IN  FORCE.  335 

The  act  was  consummated.  The  South  won,  and  her 
victory  accomplished  the  ruin  of  tlie  institution  in  be- 
half of  which  the  battle  was  fought.  The  Missouri  Com- 
promise was  repealed.  At  once  throughout  the  North 
there  ran  a  flame  of  indignation.  "■  Free  Kansas  or 
fight !"  rang  from  movmtain  and  valley.  In  an  instant 
the  past  was  dead.  The  political  issues  of  the  day  grew 
stale  in  an  hour.  The  ghost  of  the  old  Whig  party 
wandered  still  here  and  there.  The  secret  ritual  of  the 
"Know  Nothings"  was  not  suthcient  to  hold  men  to 
their  allegiance  to  the  American  party.  The  question 
that  had  been  thrust  aside  so  often  had  at  length  found 
entrance  into  national  politics,  and  Slavery  and  Free- 
dom stood  face  to  face,  not  only  on  the  plains  of  Kansas 
but  in  every  village  and  hamlet  in  the  land.  A  band  of 
citizens  of  Michigan  called  for  a  convention  to  form  a 
party  in  the  state,  to  be  composed  of  "all  who  were 
opposed  to  the  aggressions  of  slavery."  The  word  was 
fitly  chosen.  Many  thousands  who  would  not  have  ut- 
tered a  word  or  lifted  a  hand  against  slavery  in  the 
states,  were  ready  to  fight  to  the  death  against  what 
they  deemed  its  "aggressions." 

The  new  party  was  called  Eepublican.  It  sprung 
into  life  like  Minerva.  In  a  day  it  had  swallowed  up, 
like  Aaron's  rod,  all  parties  except  its  one  great 
enemy.  The  lightning  spread  the  contagion.  State 
after  state  made  haste  to  furnish  its  contingent.  Men 
woke  in  the  morning  Whigs  or  Know  Nothings  and 
slept  at  night  Kepublicans.  The  past  was  rolled  away 
as  a  scroll.     The  present  filled  the  earth. 

The  shrieker  for  freedom — the  professional  Abolition 
orator  who  had  shouted  for  so  many  years  apparently 
in  vain — found  himself  now  upon  the  crest  of  the  wave. 
The  "aggressions  of  slavery"  had  suddenly  vivified 
all  his  old  arguments.  He  stood  a  prophet  justified 
in  his   own  day.      Where  he  had  met  revilings  before, 


336  EOT  PLOWSHARES. 

he  heard  only  plaudits  now.  The  abstraction  of  yester- 
day had  become  a  reality  to-day.  The  spirit  of  liberty 
was  mustering  its  hosts  for  the  Armageddon  with 
slavery.  Kansas  was  the  advance  post  of  both.  Here 
came  the  first  skirmish. 

The  South  has  never  been  backward  in  maintaining 
what  it  conceived  to  be  its  right,  nor  has  it  ever  stopped 
to  count  the  odds  against  it.  Xo  matter  how  much  of 
boasting  it  may  have  done  ;  no  matter  how  mistaken 
its  views,  it  has  always  been  ready  to  vouch  for  them 
with  blood.  The  South  believed  it  had  an  abstract 
right  to  carry  slavery  into  Kansas,  and  it  was  not  slow 
to  assert  that  right.  It  sent  its  voluntary  represen- 
tatives to  take  and  hold.  They  came  from  far  and  near. 
Missouri  overflowed  with  typical  plantation-grown, 
slave-nursed,  slave-holding  and  slave-raising  Americans, 
who  counted  the  right  to  enslave  inalienable  in  the  free- 
man and  were  willing, to  fight  for  it  as  an  inestimable 
privilege.  They  were  called,  north  of  the  mystic  line 
that  separated  the  realms  so  strangely  bound  together, 
"  Border  Ruffians. " 

The  East  and  North  mustered  their  forces  at  once  to 
hold  the  territory  against  all  attempts  to  establish 
slavery  in  its  borders.  Money  flowed  like  water.  Tools, 
provisions,  arms  were  furnished  all  who  would  go  and 
settle  there.  The  anti-slavery  societies  sent  out  armed 
colonies.  In  the  section  where  slavery  held  sway  they 
were  called  "Jay-Hawkers." 

A  reign  of  rapine,  blood  and  plunder  folloAved.  The 
fury  of  the  South  for  the  first  time  met  the  sturd}'  resolu- 
tion of  the  l!^orth.  While  a  desultory  warfare  was  waged 
upon  her  plains  Kansas  Avas  the  Avatchword  of  a  more 
important  conflict  in  the  national  arena. 

Names  are  things  in  the  world  of  politics,  and  epi- 
thets become  weapons  of  offense  or  defense  in  every 
struggle  between  conflicting  dogmas. 


THE  RECONNOISSANCE  IN  FORCE.  337 

In  the  presidential  election  of  1856,  slavery  came  for 
the  first  time  to  be  the  question  at  issue  between  the 
two  great  parties  of  the  country — not  its  rights,  nor  yet 
its  policy,  but  its  "aggressions."  It  was  the  trial  trip 
of  the  new  party.  It  was  hardly  a  year  since  its  banner 
had  been  unfurled.  It  was  cumbered  with  fears  and 
fossils.  Many  of  its  members  still  called  themselves  by 
other  names.  Very  few  had  forgotten  the  idols  they 
had  worshipped.  There  was  the  hazard  that  attends 
all  new  ventures — the  half-heartedness,  the  distrust,  the 
thrifty  inclination  not  to  go  so  far  as  to  make  retreat 
impossible.  The  man  chosen  to  lead  was  one  who  had 
nothing  to  lose.  Fortune  favored  him  even  when  it 
marked  him  for  disaster.  The  young  giant  did  not 
overcome  its  veteran  antagonist,  but  the  struggle  was 
so  close  that  any  unprejudiced  observer  might  easily 
have  seen  that  the  death-grapple  had  begun.  A  party 
that  had  never  cast  a  presidential  vote  before  had 
brought  the  best  trained  opponent  the  country  had  ever 
known— the  victor  in  many  a  conflict — to  the  very  edge 
of  defeat.  The  "aggressions  of  slavery"  had  healed 
all  dissensions  in  the  ranks  of  its  foes.  It  had  won  in 
the  first  skirmish ;  the  reconnoissance  in  force  had  been 
repulsed,  but  over  against  it  was  an  enemy  devoted  solely 
to  its  destruction. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

NOT  WITHOUT   HONOR. 

Dawson  Fox  was  about  to  return  to  Skendoah.  It 
was  a  long  time  since  he  had  gone  forth,  a  sturdy  child 
of  poverty,  to  do  a  man's  work  and  win  a  name  for 
himself  that  he  might  come  back  and  woo  pretty  Mat- 
tie  Ermendorf  to  share  his  labor  and  his  fame.  It  was 
twenty-five  years  and  more  since  he  had  learned  that 
the  dream  of  his  youth  was  not  to  be  fulfilled.  The  little 
hamlet  had  never  missed  the  barefoot  boy  who  went 
away  ;  and  it  listened  with  something  of  wonder  and  a 
little  self-gratulation  to  the  sermon  of  the  high-browed 
earnest-eyed  young'  man  who  had  returned.  And  now 
again  the  thriving  town  that  had  grown  up  where  had 
been  only  the  "Drovers'  Wayside  Home"  and  the  few 
straggling  houses  of  the  old-time  corners  was  about  to 
honor  itself  by  reclaiming  an  interest  in  a  long-lost  son. 
The  town  was  full  of  it.  The  dead-walls  were  placarded 
with  it,  and  the  village  newspaper,  edited  by  a  man  wiio 
had  come  to  the  village  hardly  a  year  before,  teemed  with 
glowing  accounts  of  the  "gifted  and  eloquent  son  of 
Skendoah,"  who  was  said  to  be  "remembered  with  pe- 
culiar pride  and  affection  by  all  our  old  citizens,"  The 
"old  citizens"  were  very  numerous,  too,  considering 
what  the  town  had  been  before  Harrison  Kortright  had 
restored  the  lost  lake  Memnona,  and  turned  its  pri- 
soned powers  upon  the  dripping  wheels  below.  Daw- 
son Eox  was  in  everybody's  mouth.  Almost  every  man 
and  woman  in  whose  hair  there  showed  a  thread  of 
silver,  was  sure  to  have  some  memory  of  the  returning 


NOT  WITHOUT  UONOR.  339 

celebrity,  or  at  least  some  tradition  derived  from  the 
specially  intimate  associates  of  his  youth.  Men  stopped 
each  other  on  the  street  to  tell  tales  of  his  boyhood. 
Laborers  in  the  factories  allowed  their  machines  to  run 
idly  on  while  they  talked  of  the  returning  prodigy.  This 
is  what  the  handbills  said  of  him  : 

BLEEDING  KANSAS! 
A  Meeting  of  the  Citizens  of  Skendoah 

WILL    BE   HELD   AT 

KORTRIGHT    HALL 
Next   Wednesday   Night, 

to  TESTIFY  our   SYMPATHY 

AND 

DEVISE   MEANS   FOR  SENDING   AID 

TO   THE 

Settlers  in  Kansas,  who  are  Suffering  from  the 

Ravages  of  Border-Ruffian  Hordes, 

who  seek  to 

Drive  Every  Freeman  from  Her  Borders. 

Hon.  Harrison  Kortright  will  preside.  Rev.  Dawson  Fox,  the 
celebrated  Orator  and  Missionary,  who  is  known  as  the  "Apostle 
of  Freedom "  in  Kansas,  where  he  has  labored  unceasingly  for 
three  years,  will  address  the  meeting.  The  distinguished  orator 
is  a  native  of  Skendoah,  and  will  be  warmly  welcomed  in  his 
former  home,  where  he  has  never  been  forgotten. 

The  company  of  emigrants  who  have  been  fitted  out  from  Sken- 
doah and  vicinity  will  leave  on  Thursday.  They  will  be  accom- 
panied to  the  station  by  a  grand  procession  of  all  the  citizens  who 
favor  Free  Speech,  Free  Labor,  Free  Soil  and  Free  Kansas. 
Their  outfit  is  not  quite  as  complete  as  is  desirable,  but  every 
man  has  his  Sharpe's  rifle  and  plenty  of  ammunition. 

The  water  will  be  shut  off  at  12  o'clock  on  Thursday,  so  that 
all  may  take  part  in  this  demonstration. 

By  order  of  the  Committee. 

Dawson  Fox  had  been  a  missionary,  and  had  labored 
faithfully  among  the  people  to  whom  he  had  been  sent, 


340  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

but  not  with  any  notable  success.  All  who  knew  the 
man,  and  how  he  had  toiled  in  his  distant  field,  won- 
dered at  this  fact.  His  associates  and  superiors  in  the 
foreign  mission  work  said,  after  a  while,  that  he  was  a 
most  brilliant  and  devoted  man,  but  not  suited  to  that 
work.  It  was  suggested  that  he  should  marry,  but  it 
only  excited  a  strange  petulancy  when  he  was  urged  to 
do  so.  At  length  labor  and  loneliness  and  the  terrible 
climate  brought  him  a  release.  His  health  was  broken, 
and  it  was  decided  that  only  the  homeward  voyage  and 
home  scenes  could  effect  a  cure.  He  had  not  spent  all 
these  years  pining  for  a  lost  and  hopeless  love.  So  he 
told  himself,  and  he  spoke  truly  when  he  said  so.  He 
was  not  the  man  to  destroy  himself  with  regret.  Few 
men  in  his  position  had  ever  given  so  much  time  to  study ; 
but  that  had  not  brought  him  forgetfulness.  The  long 
years  of  self-sacrifice  and  unceasing  application,  in  which 
he  had  dreamed  only  of  Mattie  Ermendorf,  had  burned 
her  image  into  his  heart  beyond  possibility  of  eradication. 
If  he  had  won  her  he  would  have  become  a  part  of  the 
world,  for  she  would  have  led  him  into  it.  Without  her, 
however,  he  was  fitted  only  to  be  a  hermit.  His  studies 
were  a  cell  where  only  he  and  his  love  came  in  those 
years,  and  when  his  hope  had  died  he  hid  there  with  his 
dead,  which  was  more  precious  than  all  the  living.  He 
wrought  in  the  learning  of  the  land  he  was  sent  to  en- 
lighten, but  came  not  near  the  hearts  of  its  people, 
because  his  own  heart  was  the  sealed  sepulchre  of  love. 

When  he  returned  he  had  half  hoped  that  during  his 
absence  time  might  have  wrought  some  miracle  in  his 
behalf;  but  when  he  sat  at  Jared  Clarkson's  hospitable 
board  and  heard  from  his  lips  of  the  prosperity  that  had 
fallen  on  Skendoah  through  the  man  who  had  married 
the  woman  he  had  loved,  and  learned  that  Paradise 
Bay,  now  in  the  outskirts  of  a  thrifty  town,  had  been 
transformed   into  an  elegant  mansion    whose  mistress 


NOT  WITHOUT  HONOR.  841 

was  the  good  angel  of  every  sorrowing  heart  within  its 
busy  limit,  he  simply  said  to  himself,  ''It  is  well."  He 
felt  that  the  life  he  would  have  bound  to  his  own  had 
been  made  richer  in  blessing  to  them  that  needed,  per- 
haps, and  had  no  doubt  been  fuller  of  joy  than  if  he  had 
had  his  will.  So  he  did  not  venture  near  to  witness  her 
joy,  lest  even  then  he  should  mar  its  completeness,  but 
finding  a  work  ready  to  his  hand  which  ran  with  his 
inclination,  he  gave  himself  to  it,  as  soon  as  restored 
health  would  permit,  and  for  many  years  he  had  been 
one  of  the  most  noted  of  that  class  of  peripatetic  mis- 
sionaries who  were  known  as  Abolition  orators. 

Of  these  there  were  two  classes — men  who  had  nothing 
else  to  do,  and  men  who  did  little  else.  The  former  class 
too  often  became  mere  ranters,  spouters  for  a  single 
idea.  Their  sense  of  fitness  and  proportion  was  de- 
stroyed, and  to  their  minds  the  world  seemed  swinging 
round  a  single  thought.  Dawson  Fox  was  not  only  too 
large  a  man  to  be  thus  bounded  and  absorbed,  and  life 
had  also  brought  to  him  too  wide  an  outlook  to  permit 
such  subjugation.  He  felt  that  the  world  was  not  all 
bounded  by  the  nation  whose  travail  had  just  begun, 
though  he  sincerely  believed  that  here  the  question  of 
individual  liberty  was  to  be  fought  out  for  all  times  and 
for  all  peoples.  It  was  that  portion  of  the  great  world- 
conflict  that  filled  the  present.  It  was  to  him  also  a 
part  of  that  religion  to  the  promotion  of  which  he  had 
been  dedicated — the  one  element  of  Christianity  which 
it  was  given  unto  our  day  and  times  to  illustrate  and 
construe  for  the  edification  of  the  ages.  To  him  this 
idea  was  a  part  of  a  far  greater  whole.  Liberty  was  a 
foundation-stone,  but  the  edifice  built  above  was  far 
more  worthy  and  beautiful  than  that  on  which  it  rested. 
Man  was  greater,  in  his  eyes,  than  any  of  his  attributes ; 
God  infinitely  above  the  laws  by  Him  ordained.  He 
felt  the  work  of  estabUshing  freedom  to  be  only  another 


343  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

form  of  missionary  labor.  In  his  view,  religion  was 
made  for  man,  and  not  man  for  religion.  He  had  been 
unable  to  do  a  laborer's  part  in  one  portion  of  the  Lord's 
vineyard,  but  in  that  which  he  had  now  entered  his 
powers  had  full  play,  and  he  found  himself  strengthened 
by  knowledge  and  experience  for  the  work.  So,  it  was 
no  wonder  that  the  disappointed  foreign  missionary  be- 
came famous  as  an  advocate  of  liberty  and  a  home  mis- 
sionary on  the  plains  of  Kansas.  He  had  crossed  its 
border  almost  with  the  first  settlers,  drawn  thither  by 
that  fine  instinct  of  its  strategic  importance  in  the  great 
conflict,  that  so  often  seems  more  like  prophecy  tlian 
forecast  in  natures  that  are  strung  to  a  higher  pitch  of 
observation  than  the  common  herd.  Regardless  of  sect, 
he  had  constituted  himself  at  once  a  pastor  of  the  scat- 
tered people,  keeping  alive,  at  the  same  time,  the  spirit 
of  religion  and  of  liberty  in  their  hearts.  He  had  shared 
their  dangers  and  sufterings,  and  had  more  than  once 
been  their  emissary  to  the  rich  and  populous  East,  whose 
outpost  they  defended. 

More  than  once  had  Mr.  Kortright,  meeting  him  at 
various  assemblies  of  this  character,  sought  to  induce 
him  to  revisit  the  home  of  his  boyhood ;  but  it  had  been 
in  vain.  The  large-hearted,  busy-brained  manufixcturer 
had  no  suspicion  of  the  reason  why.  He  had  something 
more  than  mere  regard  for  this  man  of  a  double  life. 
They  had  been  boys  together — not  exactly  playmates  in 
any  familiar  sense,  but  they  had  known  each  other — and 
he  fully  realized  the  disadvantages  under  which  Daw- 
son Fox  had  labored,  and  honored  the  success  he  had 
achieved.  Strangely  enough,  he  did  not  stop  to  measure 
it  by  any  material  standard.  Perhaps  strong  natures 
rarely  do.  The  fact  of  success  is  of  more  weight  with 
the  man  who  has  wrought  his  own  way  upward  than 
the  mere  accident  of  wealth.  Dawson  Fox  had  suc- 
ceeded ;  so  had  Harrison  Kortright,  and  they  two,  in  a 


NOT  WITHOUT  HONOR.  343 

sense,  towered  alone  above  those  with  whom  they  had 
played  and  fought  and  with  whoiu  they  had  been  Avont 
to  compare  themselves  in  the  old  days.  It  mattered  not 
that  one  was  rich  and  the  other  poor.  Both  had  hon- 
ored the  native  soil,  and  each  was  willing  to  accord  to 
the  other  the  meed  of  credit  for  his  exertion  and  success. 
The  magnate  of  Skendoah  was  no  aristocrat.  No  man 
had  ever  accused  him  of  that ;  but  he  must  have  been 
more  or  less  than  human  not  to  have  been  proud  of  him- 
self and  his  work.  In  a  single  decade  he  had  transformed 
the  silent  hamlet  into  a  busy  city.  Lake  Memnona  was 
his  monument — his  appeal  to  the  ages — the  attestation  of 
his  manhood.  His  life  before  that  had  been  nothing. 
So  he  said,  and  so  every  one  else  believed,  forgetful  that 
it  is  in  silence  and  repose  that  Nature  ripens  her  best 
fruits.  The  years  of  silence  had  been  years  of  growth 
with  him.  He  did  not  know  it;  yet  he  regarded  with 
peculiar  pleasure  whatever  there  was  of  worth  and  value 
in  those  years.  The  friends  ot  that  time  were  of  especial 
dehght  to  him  now.  One  by  one  he  had  found  a  place 
for  several  of  them  in  connection  with  his  various  enter- 
prises, and  all  regarded  him  still  as  "  the  'Squire."  They 
said  of  him — everybody  who  knew  him — that  old  Kort- 
right  had  not  forgotten  what  he  had  come  up  from.  It 
was  a  mistake.  He  was  simply  unconscious  that  he  had 
come  up.  He  felt  his  later  life  to  be  no  better  or  wor- 
thier than  his  early  manhood.  It  was  only  broader  and 
stronger— that  was  all.  The  people  who  wrought  with 
him  were  not  beneath  him.  They  were  not  his  work- 
people, but  his  neighbors.  The  little  church  had  grown  in 
size  but  not  in  magnificence.  Kortright  Hall,  as  the 
people  had  insisted  that  it  should  be  called,  was  the 
property  of  the  citizens  and  for  their  use.  All  sorts  of 
gatherings  were  held  here  in  which  the  citizens,  or  any 
considerable  number  of  them,  were  interested.  Its  plat- 
form was  free.     Its  seats  were  free,  unless  the  people 


344  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

by  a  general  ballot  put  a  price  on  them  for  any  specific 
purpose. 

It  was  here  that  he  desired  to  welcome  Dawson  Fox, 
and  with  that  purpose,  in  order  both  to  gratify  the  ex- 
pected guest  and  his  old  friends,  he  had  procured  the  com- 
mittee to  be  made  up  of  men  whose  names  he  believed 
the  orator  would  still  remember.  Among  these  were  our 
old  friend  Shields,  still  the  positive,  independent,  keen- 
minded  farmer,  whose  estate  had  felt  the  impetus  of 
Skendoah's  growth  until  he  was  now,  in  his  later  years, 
a  man  of  affluence ;  and  Van  Wormcr,  the  stirring  head 
of  a  valuable  business  that  the  waters  of  Lake  Mem- 
nona  had  brought  into  life. 

"It's  a  pity,"  said  Shields,  running  his  hand  over 
the  thin,  gray  hairs  that  framed  his  sharp  features  on 
either  side,  when  they  had  met  to  draft  the  letter  of  in- 
vitation— "it's  a  pity  old  'Squire  Ritner  ain't  here  to 
take  a  part  in  this.  It 's  my  notion  that  he 's  about  the 
only  one  that  had  any  special  liking  for  Dawson  when 
he  was  a  ragged  boy  round  here.  He  did  take  to  him, 
and  I  guess  he  helped  him  arter  he  left  here." 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Kortright,  "but  there 
never  was  a  man  more  likely  to  do  another  a  good  turn 
than  Ritner.     We  lost  a  man  when  we  buried  him." 

"  That  we  did,"  said  Shields.  "  I  've  heard  him  talk 
about  Dawson  more  'n  once  since  he  began  to  make  a 
figger  in  the  world,  and  it  was  easy  to  see  he  'd  always 
had  a  high  opinion  of  him." 

"He  was  always  ahead  of  all  the  rest  of  us  in  finding 
out  good  things  to  be  done,"  said  Kortright,  with  a  sigh. 

"Except  in  finding  water-power,"  laughed  Yan 
Wormer,  with  his  old  propensity  to  tease. 

"Well,"  said  Kortright,  "Josiah  Ritner  wasn't  the 
sharpest  man  in  findin'  pennies  or  dollars  that 's  ever 
been  within  a  hundred  miles  of  Skendoah,  but  I  've 
never  met  a  man  that  knew  quite  so  well  how  to  use 


NOT  WITHOUT  HONOR.  345 

'em.  The  time  was,  gentlemen,  when  that  man  took 
me  out  of  about  the  worst  rut  I  ever  got  into." 

"  How  was  that  ?"  asked  Yau  Wormer. 

"Well,  you  know,  I  wasn't  exactly  used  to  handling 
as  much  money  as  I  had  to  use  in  starting  these  things, 
and  I  was  pretty  nervous  about  the  outcome  for  a  time. 
I  worked  mighty  hard  for  a  year  or  two,  and  didn't 
think  of  much  else  day  in  and  day  out,  till  the  fixctories 
were  up  and  everything  running  as  smooth  and  easy  as 
water  through  a  pine  '  trunk. '  Then  the  habit  had  got 
so  fastened  onto  me  that  I  never  thought  of  giving 
attention  to  anything  else.  One  day  'Squire  Ritner 
came  into  the  office,  and  as  I  was  too  busy  to  talk  he 
just  sat  and  watched  me  for  an  hour  or  so.  We  'd  al- 
ways been  fast  friends,  but  I  should  think  it  had  been 
two  years  since  we  'd  said  much  more  'n  '  How  d'ye 
do  ?'  in  passing.  After  a  while  we  were  alone  a  minute 
and  the  'Squire  came  up  and  put  his  hand  on  my  shoul- 
der in  that  sort  of  petting  way  he  had  with  everybody, 
you  know,  and  said  : 

" '  Seems  to  me,  Kortright,  you  're  a'  forgittin'  that 
you  ain't  nothing  but  a  trustee.' 

"  I  never  was  so  scared  in  my  life,  for  I  thought  he  'd 
got  hold  of  something  I  didn't  care  about  being  known; 
but  when  I  looked  up  I  saw  his  meaning  at  once.  I  got 
up  and  took  his  hand  and  shook  it  as  if  he  'd  been  ray 
brother,  as  he  surely  was,  and  said,  '  So  I  had,  'Squire ; 
but  I  promise  you  I  won't  any  more.'  " 

"Oh,  ho!"  said  Shields,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
"  that 's  what  Mis  Kortright  laughs  about  yet  as  your 
'second  conversion,' — eh  ?" 

"  Exactly.  I  bought  a  new  span  of  horses  and  a  new 
carriage,  and  went  home  at  four  o'clock  and  took  her 
out  riding.  It  was  about  the  first  time  I  'd  done  such  a 
thing  since  our  courting  days,  too." 

Kortright  laughed  at  the  recollection,  and  it  was  evi- 


346  HOT  PL 0  WSHABES. 

dent  that  his  friends  understood  what  his  "second  con- 
version" meant. 

"And,  by  the  way,"  said  Shields,  "that  reminds  me 
that  Eitner  once  told  me  that  Fox  took  it  very  much  to 
heart,  your  marry  in'  Mattie  Ermendorf." 

"  Crossed  in  love,  eh  ?"  said  Van  Wormer  gleefully. 
"Well,  well,  'Squire,  I  had  no  idea  you  Avere  bringing 
an  old  rival  back  here  to  exult  over  his  misfortune." 

"Sho,  sho,"  said  Kortright,  with  a  little  impatience, 
but  with  the  hint  of  a  blush  on  his  fine,  honest  face. 
"  That  is  just  one  of  Shields'  jokes." 

"Not  a  bit  on't,"  said  Shields,  combing  his  thin 
locks  with  his  hand;  "it's  what  Ritner  told  me — and 
told  it  in  dead  earnest,  too." 

"Why,  man,"  said  Kortright,  with  an  amused  smile, 
"Dawson  Fox  hadn't  been  in  Skendoah  for  years  before 
we  were  married.  I  don't  'spose  he  'd  seen  Mattie  since 
she  was  a  little  girl." 

"That's  jest  what  Ritner  said,"  persisted  Shields. 
"He  said  they  were  great  cronies  as  boy  and  gal,  and 
he  'd  sot  his  heart  on  marryin'  her  before  he  went  away 
to  school,  an'  he  was  mightily  broke  down  wlien  he  come 
back  arterwards  an'  found  matters  all  arranged  for  her 
to  marry  you." 

"He  did  come  back  just  before  we  were  married," 
said  Kortright  musingly. 

"Jest  so,  jest  so,"  said  Shields.  "I  thought  Ritner 
wa'n't  likely  to  be  very  far  out  of  the  way  on  't.  He 
wasn't  given  to  talking  what  he  didn't  know  about." 

Kortright's  head  dropped  thoughtfully  upon  his  breast. 
A  new  light  had  come  into  his  mind.  Tiie  cryptomerias 
that  still  flanked  the  pathway  to  his  door;  his  wife's 
tender  care  of  them ;  the  fact  that  she  had  scarcely 
spoken  of  Dawson  Fox,  notwithstanding  his  own  eulo- 
gies, all  confirmed  this  story  of  an  early  attachment 
between  them. 


NOT  WITHOUT  RON  OB.  347 

"  I  declare,  Mr.  Shields,"  said  Vau  Wormer,  with  a 
wink  toward  Kortright,  and  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders 
meant  as  a  rebuke  to  Shields  for  his  indiscretion,  "I 
believe  you  've  made  the  'Squire  jealous." 

'"Tain't  possible,"  said  Shields  in  surprise,  for  the 
first  time  realizing  that  it  was  possible. 

"Poor  fellow,"  said  Kortright,  looking  up  and  smihng 
gravely  at  their  banter ;  "  poor  fellow  !  I  know  what  he 
lost  c^entlemen,  and  can't  but  think  how  lonesome  the 
years^would  have  been  if  I  had  been  in  his  place  and  he 
in  mine." 

There  was  a  tender  light  in  his  eye  as  he  spoke,  and 
his  lips  trembled  even  as  he  smiled.  The  knowledge  of 
this  romantic  episode  in  her  hfe  clothed  the  wife  of  his 
bosom  only  with  a  tenderer  reverence.  How  had  he 
been  blessed  in  her  love,  while  this  other  better  man, 
this  brilliant  orator,  who  had  sought  it,  had  been  left 
empty-hearted  in  the  world!  The  man  was  too  brave 
and  self-forgetful  to  feel  a  twinge  of  pain  or  have  a  hint 
of  jealousy. 

"  We  must  do  all  the  more,"  he  continued,  "  to  make 
him  feel  that  we  haven't  forgotten  him.  That  is,  if  he 
will  come.  I  'm  afraid  he  won't ;  but  if  he  does  we  '11 
give  him  such  a  welcome  as  a  man  don't  often  get  when 
he  comes  back  to  a  place  he  hasn't  been  in  three  days 
since  be  was  a  boy." 

"Well,"  said  Shields  sententiously,  "you  know  there 
ain't  many  such  men  as  he." 

"Nor  many  such  as  'Squire  Kortright,"  said  Van 
Wormer  with  a  pecuhar  warmth. 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Shields,  with  a  reproachful 
earnestness  that  brought  a  laugh  from  both  the  others. 

"Thank  you,  gentlemen,"  said  Kortright;  "but  we 
are  not  getting  on  with  our  business.  You  just  write 
the  letter.  Van  Wormer,  and  we  will  sign  it— if  it  suits 


348  HOT  PL  0  WtillARES. 

The  letter  was  written  more  than  once,  and  finally 
sent  on  its  way.  When  Harrison  Kortright  met  his 
wife,  an  hour  afterwards,  there  was  a  soft  light  in  his 
eyes  and  a  tenderness  that  astonished  the  good  woman 
as  he  put  his  arm  about  her  waist  and  kissed  her  still 
fair  lips.  It  was  a  most  lover-like  scene  that  followed, 
when  he  told  her  all  that  he  had  heard,  and  listened  to 
its  confirmation  from  her  lips.  They  were  old  lovers, 
and  married  lovers,  too,  whom  our  modern  analysts  of 
the  human  heart  count  only  worthy  of  sneers  and  jests  ; 
but  it  was  really  beautiful  to  the  angel  eyes  that  looked 
down  on  Paradise  Bay  that  afternoon  and  saw  the  wife, 
in  whom  the  romantic  girl  had  never  died,  who  had 
hungered  all  the  years  of  her  married  life  for  the  blan- 
dishments and  caresses  of  love,  cast  herself  into  her 
husband's  arms,  kiss  the  pale,  worn  face,  fondle  the 
gray  whiskers  tenderly,  and  declare  how  she  had  been 
blessed  above  all  other  women  in  his  fervent  devotion. 
She  was  a  silly  old  woman ;  he  a  weak,  feeble  old  man, 
whose  step  still  betrayed  the  touch  of  disease ;  yet  me- 
thinks  it  were  a  prettier  picture  and  better  to  look  upon 
than  if  love  had  not  been  there.  It  certainly  cannot  be 
counted  artistic  in  our  modern  sense,  because  there  was 
nothing  vile  or  degrading  in  it.  However,  that  night 
there  went  out  from  Skendoah  another  missive  to  Daw- 
eon  Fox,  full  of  the  fragrance  of  the  girl-love  of  long 
ugo,  which,  though  it  had  never  ripened  into  woman- 
love  in  the  heart  of  Mattie  Ermendorf,  had  never  faded 
from  the  memor}^  of  Martha  Kortright. 

In  answer  to  both  missives  Dawson  Fox  had  said 
"Yes,"  and  on  the  morrow  he  was  to  come,  to  be  for 
two  days  a  guest  at  Paradise  Bay,  and  then  to  speak 
at  the  great  meeting  to  be  held  in  aid  of  "Bleeding 
Kansas." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

BRIDGING  THE  CHASM. 

Upon  the  day  when  Dawson  Fox  was  to  arrive, 
Mr.  Kortright  was  unusually  busy.  He  requested  the 
other  members  of  the  committee  to  accompany  Mrs. 
Kortright  in  his  carriage  to  the  station,  two  miles  away, 
to  welcome  their  distinguished  guest  to  his  old  home. 
Only  the  wife  fathomed  the  subtlety  of  this  maneuver. 
To  her  the  silent,  reserved  man  had  year  by  year  be- 
come more  and  more  transparent.  She  saw  through 
his  loving  artifice  when  he  told  her  that  morning  how 
he  had  planned  for  the  day. 

"  And  I  shan't  be  home  till  supper ;  so  you  must  take 
care  of  him,  and  not  let  him  wear  himself  out  talking 
to  everybody.  You  'd  better  keep  him  quiet  here  at 
home,  or  perhaps  take  him  out  riding  toward  evening." 

The  comely  dame  looked  at  him  with  a  loving  smile, 
and  said : 

"I  didn't  know  much  about  you  when  we  were  mar- 
ried." 

"  Not  know  me  ?"  said  the  'Squire  in  amaze.  "  Why, 
we  were  boy  and  girl  together. ' ' 

"Yes,"  meditatively. 

"  And  you  knew  all  there  was  to  know  about  me." 

"  It  takes  a  long  while  to  learn  a  man." 

"There's  where  you're  mistaken.  One  sees  clear 
through  us  at  first  sight.  It 's  you  women  that  are 
deep.  Only  think  how  long  we  had  lived  together  and 
I  never  knew — " 

"There  wasn't  anything  to  know,"  interrupted  the 
349 


350  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

matron,  with  a  blush  that  swept  like  a  wave  over  her 
comely  face  and  up  to  the  line  of  her  soft  gray  hair. 

"And  there  isn't  anything  to  know  now,"  laughed 
the  'Squire,  as  he  put  his  left  arm  about  her,  and  with 
the  cane  dangling  by  its  crooked  neck  over  his  right, 
lifted  her  chin  and  looked  lovingly  down  into  her  face. 

"  Oh,  yes,  there  is,"  she  said,  as  she  laid  her  head  on 
his  shoulder.  "I  shall  never  learn  all  your  kindness 
and  thoughtfulness  for  others — " 

"There,  there,"  said  he,  with  a  sudden  moistening 
of  the  eyelids.  "Don't  let  us  be  a  couple  of  old  fools. 
I  just  thought  the  poor  fellow  mightn't  feel  quite  so  bad 
if  he  got  used  to  seeing  you  again  without  having  me 
around  to  remind  him  of  his  loss." 

"And  my  gain,"  said  the  quick-witted  woman,  look- 
ing up  at  him  archly  and  proudly. 

"See  here,  I'm  a-going,"  said  the  'Squire,  as  he 
limped  quickly  away  (he  had  always  limped  and  always 
carried  a  cane  since  that  first  day  we  saw  him).  He 
turned  as  he  reached  the  door,  shook  his  head  at  his 
wife,  and  went  away  with  a  warm  light  upon  his  thin 
gray  face  and  in  his  deep  gray  eye. 

There  was  a  light  in  her  face,  too — a  love-light  that 
deepened  its  matronly  beauty  and  made  the  soft,  silvery 
crown  above  seem  like  a  refulgent  halo  to  the  weary- 
looking  man  who  came  down  the  platform  between 
Shields  and  Van  Wormer  and  was  introduced  to  her 
as  the  Kev.  Dawson  Fox.  There  was  a  half-startled 
look  in  his  eye,  his  lip  trembled  under  the  grizzled 
moustache,  his  hand  clasped  hers  half-nervously.  Then 
he  looked  into  her  eyes  ;  saw  the  light  there,  read  the 
earnest,  quiet  welcome  before  it  fell  from  her  hps,  and, 
taking  the  seat  beside  her,  felt  a  strange  sense  of  rest. 
There  was  no  spurious  sentimentality  about  the  man. 
He  had  loved  Mattie  Ermendorf,  and  had  never  loved 
any  other.     But  that  love  had  been  pure  and  unselfish. 


BRIDGING  THE  CHASM.  351 

His  ceaseless  prayer  had  been  for  her  happiness.  The 
older  and  broader  he  had  grown  the  deeper  and  ten- 
derer had  become  his  devotion  to  his  youthful  dream. 
He  had  dreaded  to  be  awakened  from  it.  He  feared  to 
read  in  her  eyes  something  he  would  not  wish  to  see — 
the  evidence  of  a  life  not  altogether  complete  and  per- 
fect. He  feared  to  find  the  trace  of  sorrow,  tears  and 
discontent.  Instead,  he  found  only  the  ripe  fruitage  of 
peace  and  love.  He  was  content.  He  saw  with  lan- 
guid interest  the  young  city  through  which  they  drove. 
He  heard  the  rumble  of  the  water-wheels  and  listened 
to  the  story  of  Lake  Memnona's  subjugation.  He  noted 
here  and  there  a  remembered  object — asked  dreamily 
after  this  and  that  half-forgotten  name.  He  had  lived 
here  once — or  some  one  like  him — but  it  was  in  some 
previous  state  of  existence.  He  had  wandered  over 
the  hills — he  had  known  the  woods  and  fields;  yet 
he  hardly  realized  that  it  was  himself  who  had  once 
dwelt  there.  His  life  lay  between — a  life  of  labor  and 
disappointment  and  ill-success — in  another  world.  He 
tried  to  go  back  to  that  old  time,  but  he  could  not. 
What  there  had  been  he  dimly  remembered;  for  what 
there  was  he  hardly  cared.  The  world  had  gone  away 
and  left  him.  He  was  dead  already  save  where  he 
touched  the  world's  life  at  one  vital  spot.  He  laid  him- 
self back  on  the  cushions,  closed  his  eyes,  and  tried  to 
think  whether  he  were  dreaming  or  waking.  His  face 
was  pinched  and  worn.  The  long  tawny  beard  only 
half  hid  its  ghastliness. 

"He's  just  about  tuckered  out,"  said  Shields  in  a 
whisper.  The  younger  man  assented  with  a  nod.  The 
woman  watched  him  keenly,  and  knew  better  than 
they  the  secret  of  his  weariness.  He  roused  himself  in 
a  moment  and  begged  pardon  for  his  incivility.  The 
committee  stopped  at  the  store  of  the  younger,  and 
Dawson  Fox  and  his  hostess  drove  on  alone  across  the 


352  HOT  PLOWBHAHEB. 

new  bridge,  past  the  old  school-house  to  the  mansion  of 
Harrison  Kortright.  He  reached  out  and  took  her 
hand.  A  soft,  contented  smile  passed  over  his  face. 
He  was  at  rest.  Then  they  came  to  the  end.  Two  tall, 
di-ooping  evergreens  flanked  the  doorway — two  glimpses 
of  the  orient.  He  saw  them  ;  guessed  their  origin  in 
a  moment,  pressed  the  hand  he  held  fervently  and 
turned  dewy  eyes  upon  his  companion.  He  was  satis- 
fied. The  past  had  been  suddenly  bridged.  The  boy 
was  alive  again.  Weariness,  pain  and  defeat  were  all 
forgotten.  He  had  been  remembered — kindly,  tenderly, 
truly.  Happiness  had  not  induced  forgetfulness.  The 
love  which  shone  in  her  eyes  for  the  man  she  had 
married  had  not  led  her  to  cast  aside  the  memory  of 
the  lover  whose  passion  had  been  unveiled  too  late. 
When  he  had  been  shown  to  his  room  he  fell  upon  his 
knees  and  asked  that  a  blessing  might  rest  upon  the 
home  he  had  entered.  The  broken  life  had  been  re- 
united, and  when  in  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Kortright  took 
her  guest  to  ride,  hunting  up  the  old  scenes  and  point- 
ing out  the  changes  that  had  been  wrought,  there  was 
no  longer  any  apathy  or  weariness.  The  man  had  be- 
come a  boy  again.  His  eye  beamed  ;  his  voice  was  full 
of  glee.  The  woman  and  the  man  touched  hands  across 
the  chasm  of  the  years  and  were  once  more  boy  and 
girl  together.  Their  route  led  by  Sturmhold,  and  the 
fond  mother  proudly  told  the  story  of  her  son's  love  and 
its  return  by  the  bright,  gifted  heiress.  As  she  showed 
him  through  its  rooms  and  chattered  of  its  history,  the 
master's  life  and  the  prospects  of  her  son,  they  came 
suddenly  upon  Lida.  The  poor  woman  gazed  a  moment 
vacantly  into  the  bright  face  of  Mrs.  Kortright,  then, 
with  a  cry  of  recognition,  sprang  toward  her  and  seized 
her  hand.  Mrs.  Kortright  was  surprised.  She  had  heard 
that  the  woman  had  sane  intervals  and  that  they  were 
becoming  more  and  more  frequent,  but  she  had  never 


BRIDGING  THE  CHASM.  35g 

seen  one  of  them  before.  In  her  surprise  and  ignorance 
she  uttered  the  very  worst  thing  she  could  have  said. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  cried,  warmly  clasping  the 
other's  hand.  "How  pleased  Hilda  will  be  to  know 
that  you  are  well  again.     I  shall  write  and  tell  her." 

"Hilda?"  said  the  other  with  a  startled  look.  "  Hilda? 
Oh,  yes — I  know — Hilda."  Then  her  look  changed  to 
one  of  mortal  hate.  She  snatched  away  her  hand  and 
said  impetuously,  "You  need  not  trouble  yourself,  ma- 
dam ;  I  shall  write  to  Hilda  myself" 

Then  she  turned  and  stalked  angrily  away. 

"That  woman  looks  too  dangerous  to  be  at  large," 
said  Fox,  watching  her  retreating  figure. 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Kortright.  "Her  atten- 
dants are  very  careful,  but  she  has  never  shown  any  in- 
clination to  do  mischief." 

"  She  glai-ed  at  you  very  angrily." 

"  Yes,  indeed.  She  seems  always  to  dislike  me  since 
her  misfortune,  and  that  is  as  near  being  violent  as  she 
ever  gets." 

When  they  returned  home  Mr.  Kortright  came  out 
upon  the  porch  to  receive  them.  There  was  a  thrill  of 
rapture  in  the  heart  of  the  still  fair  woman,  who  stood 
by  and  watched  their  hearty  greeting  at  the  thought 
that  these  two  men  had  loved  her — aye,  loved  her  still. 
A  blush  came  to  her  soft  cheek  with  this  last  thought, 
and  then  as  the  two  men  turned  to  the  old  times,  each 
evidently  full  of  admiration  for  the  other,  she  laughed 
as  she  followed  them  within  at  the  thought  that  her 
Martin,  if  present,  would  be  as  full  of  the  future  as  they 
were  of  the  past.  They  were  not  old  men.  Both  of 
them  were  progressives,  who  counted  the  present  but  the 
stepping-stone  of  to-morrow ;  but  they  had  reached  the 
age  when  retrospect  grows  pleasant  as  the  background  of 
to-day.  She  almost  wished  that  Martin  were  there,  as 
he  would  have  been  but  for  her  fear  that  the  excitement 


354  HOT  PLOWSHAREB. 

of  the  morrow  might  awaken  his  longing  to  take  part  in 
the  struggle  then  going  on  in  Kansas  and  stir  his  en- 
thusiasm to  a  pitch  which  might  defy  even  his  word  of 
honor  plighted  to  the  absent  Captain  Hargrove.  As 
this  name  floated  through  her  mind,  she  wondered 
where  he  was  and  what  had  befallen  the  master  of 
Sturmhold.  The  time  was  drawing  near  when,  in  obedi- 
ence to  his  request,  if  he  were  not  heard  from,  her 
husband  was  to  take  charge  of  his  affairs  and  act  upon 
the  presumption  of  his  death.  Her  heart  stood  still  with 
foreboding  as  she  sat  down  in  the  unlighted  sitting- 
room.  The  two  men's  voices  sounded  far  away,  though 
she  could  almost  reach  them  with  her  outstretched 
hand.  She  was  nervous,  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  went 
out  to  see  that  the  evening  meal  was  in  readiness. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

A    HARD    BARGAIN. 

Skendoaii  is  full  of  life,  yet  strangely  silent.  The 
wheels  stand  idle.  The  water  ripples  peacefully  over 
them,  trickles  through  the  mossy  trunks,  overflows  the 
silent  flumes  and  runs  in  a  sparkling  current  down  the 
rocky  channel.  The  mills  are  silent,  and  the  rows  of 
windows  in  the  factories  only  give  back  the  light  that 
shines  from  the  public  hall,  or  reflect  the  beams  of  the 
moon  as  it  wades  through  fleecy  autumn  clouds.  The 
water  had  been  shut  off"  at  four  o'clock,  and  when 
the  Avater  was  shut  off"  Skendoah  was  dead.  The  head- 
gate  by  which  the  race  below  was  fed  was  the  great 
aortic  valve  of  the  village  life.  When  that  was  closed 
all  its  activities  ceased.  The  pulleys,  belts  and  spindles 
were  still.  The  cogged  wheels  ceased  to  grind  and 
gnaw.  The  trip-hammers  hung  poised  and  motionless. 
The  breath  of  the  forges  failed.  The  anvils  grew  cold 
and  silent.  The  din  of  warfare  betwixt  man  and  mat- 
ter ceased.  The  laborers  had  left  their  stations.  The 
dust  was  settling  slowly  within,  even  as  the  silent  dew 
without. 

It  was  two  hours  since  the  autumn  twilight  began, 
and  more  than  an  hour  had  passed  since  the  glare  of 
torches,  the  beating  of  drums  and  blare  of  brazen  in- 
struments, with  the  tramp  of  many  feet,  had  sounded  ia 
the  streets.  The  town  had  gathered  in  its  council  hall. 
The  miniature  republic  had  assembled  its  witanag- 
emote,  Avhere  rich  and  poor  and  high  and  low  and  old 
and  young — male  and  female — considered  of  the  nation's. 


356  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

weal.  One  of  the  prime  integers  of  republican  power 
took  counsel  as  to  the  country's  future  and  its  part 
therein.  The  people,  in  whose  hands  was  the  sceptre  of 
authority,  had  met  in  the  town  hall  to  decide  as  to  how 
it  should  be  exercised. 

They  were  not  all  agreed.  The  struggle  of  parties  in 
the  little  town  had  been  very  fierce.  Yet  in  that  free- 
working,  free-thinking  community  the  majority  had 
daily  grown  stronger  and  the  minority  weaker,  as  the 
contest  between  liberty  and  slavery  approached  its 
culmination.  At  first  there  had  been  little  rancor. 
Among  the  scattered  farmers  of  the  hill-sides  political 
thought  and  controversy  had  been,  in  a  great  measure, 
a  diversion.  The  conflict  of  parties  had  seemed  like  a 
great  national  game,  in  which  all  took  a  part  and  all 
felt  an  interest,  as  in  any  other  game  ;  but  very  few 
took  the  result  seriously  to  heart.  As  one  or  the  other 
side  achieved  success  the  jest  of  defeat  Avas  shifted  back 
and  forth,  and  Whig  and  Democrat  exchanged  condo- 
lence or  congratulation  with  only  enough  of  chagrin  or 
exultation  to  give  zest  to  the  recurrent  conflict.  When, 
however,  the  question  of  human  right  came  to  be  ac- 
tually and  directl}^  involved  in  the  contest,  it  gradually 
took  on  a  more  serious  cast.  The  line  of  demarca- 
tion was  more  sharply  drawn.  Neighbors  grew  cool  to 
one  another.  Friends  began  to  abate  something  of 
customary  warmth.  Business  followed  in  the  wake  of 
preference.  Churches  were  divided.  Families  were  sun- 
dered. 

In  Skendoah  these  rules  had  suffered  no  exception. 
So  there  were  some  who  were  by  no  means  pleased  at 
the  demonstration  that  was  taking  place.  There  were 
some  who  took  no  pride  in  Dawson  Fox,  and  no  interest 
in  the  cause  he  represented.  Or  rather,  there  were 
some  who  contemned  him  because  of  the  cause  he  re- 
presented.     They  were  not  many,  however,   and  the 


A  HARD  BAR  G Am.  357 

limit  of  their  opposition  was  silence,  or,  at  the  utmost, 
sneers.  Those  who  indulged  in  these  were  generally 
considered  to  be  largely  moved  by  jealousy  of  Harrison 
Kortright  and  envy  of  his  remarkable  success.  Except 
these  few,  who  svilked  at  home,  and  those  others 
whom  care  or  illness  kept  away,  the  town  had  emptied 
itself  into  the  great  rectangular  hall,  whose  platform, 
from  its  first  dedication  to  popular  use,  had  been  a 
veritable  tribunal  of  liberty.  Save  for  its  flashing  win- 
dows and  a  few  feeble  lights  here  and  there,  the  town 
was  dark.  But  for  the  regular  shouts  of  applause,  the 
steady  rhythm  of  an  orator's  full  and  animated  tones, 
a  burst  of  song  or  a  snatch  of  martial  music,  the  town 
was  silent.  The  horses  of  those  Avho  had  driven  in  from 
the  neighboring  county  were  hitched  around  the  public 
square.  A  few  of  the  shops  were  yet  open,  in  the  hope 
of  catching  a  penny  from  some  belated  purchaser.  The 
long  rows  of  factories  that  lined  the  water's  edge  were 
dark  and  desolate.  There  was  something  weird  in  the 
contrast  between  the  abundant  life  and  light  within  the 
hall  and  the  silence  and  darkness  without. 

Dawson  Fox  was  telling  the  dwellers  of  his  boyhood 
home  the  story  of  Kansas — "bleeding  Kansas,"  as  it 
was  then  the  fashion  to  style  the  territory  on  which 
the  skirmishers  of  the  two  great  hosts  were  encamped, 
and  not  unfrequently  engaged.  The  crowded  hall  showed 
a  sea  of  earnest  faces.  All  types  and  nationahties 
were  gathered  there.  Almost  every  part  of  Europe 
had  its  representatives.  A  half-dozen  colored  men  and 
women  were  there,  some  with  the  watchful,  hunted 
look  of  the  fugitive,  and  others  with  a  self-importance 
which  naturally  arose  from  a  consciousness  that  their 
race  was  in  fact  the  bone  of  contention,  the  cause  of 
war.  But  the  most  noticeable  in  numbers  and  in  evi- 
dent preponderance  of  character,  were  they  of  that 
type  of  face  we  call  American-rkeen,  watchful,   scru- 


358  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

tinizing,  almost  skeptical  in  its  attent  earnestness.  They 
were  jurors  in  the  greatest  assize  of  earth — knights  and 
barons,  holding  in  capite  under  the  Great  King,  and 
accountable  to  Him  alone.  Dawson  Fox  was  the  advo- 
cate, not  of  himself  or  of  the  Free-State  settlers  of  Kan- 
sas, but  of  the  principle  they  represented —  of  the  cause 
that  underlay  their  occupancy  of  the  boundless  prairies. 
He  had  entirely  lost  his  worn  and  haggard  look  of  the 
day  before.  The  inspiration  of  the  orator  and  the  fervor 
of  the  prophet  had  overborne  his  physical  infirmities. 
His  thin  face  was  flushed,  his  spare  form  erect  and  full, 
and  his  step  upon  the  platform  was  as  proud  as  that 
of  a  conqueror.  His  faith  discounted  the  ages,  and  the 
triumph  he  foretold  was  ot  the  far  millennial  days.  His 
audience  listened  calmly.  The  crow's  feet  about  the 
keen,  watchful  eyes  grew  deeper  and  plainer.  The 
sharp,  worn  faces — men's  faces  and  women's  faces — on 
which  the  struggle  of  life  had  carved  lines  of  care — the 
indices  of  self-reliant,  independent  natures — followed 
his  words  with  keen,  curious  looks  of  questioning  or 
approval,  until  little  by  little  their  language  became 
unanimous,  and  the  orator  led  them  without  dissent  to 
his  conclusions.  Then  his  eloquence  grew  more  fervid. 
He  had  not  only  to  convince  them  that  he  was  right, 
but  to  inspire  them  to  act  on  that  conviction.  He 
sought  not  only  to  awaken  faith,  but  to  secure  the 
works  that  testify  belief. 

The  night  without  grew  dark.  The  clouds  that  swept 
across  the  moon's  face  were  denser.  The  autumn  wind 
arose  and  moaned  pitifully  around  the  nooks  and  angles 
of  the  building.  The  signs  upon  the  streets  below 
creaked  and  clattered.  The  horses  fastened  to  the  rail- 
ing along  the  public  square  looked  wistfully  about  for 
their  masters,  and  shifted  their  positions  to  avoid  the 
wind  and  the  clouds  of  dry  dust  which  it  whirled  be- 
fore it, 


A  BARD  BARGAIN.  359 

The  orator  became  more  and  more  impassioned ;  the 
audience  more  enwrapt.  The  chairman,  the  Hon.  Har- 
rison Kortright,  leaned  forward,  his  keen  white  face 
aglow  with  interest.  His  deep  gray  eyes  flashed  fire, 
and  his  sharp,  firm  mouth  was  closed  with  almost  angry 
determination.  He  had  no  need  to  be  convinced,  but 
only  to  be  awakened.  By  his  side  sat  Shields,  one  of 
the  vice-presidents  of  the  meeting,  and  the  oldest  of 
the  orator's  youthful  acquaintances.  His  thin  features 
seemed  thinner  than  ever  before,  as  Uttle  by  little  he 
drew  forward  his  chair  until  it  stood  almost  at  the 
speaker's  side.  His  narroAv  bald  head  shone  in  the 
light  of  the  overhanging  chandelier,  while  his  scattering 
gray  locks  were  thrust  back  upon  one  side,  and  his  left 
hand,  encircling  the  upturned  ear  made  surer  that  he 
should  lose  no  word  the  speaker  uttered.  And  those 
words  came  thick  and  hot.  Mrs.  Kortright  listened 
with  a  pale,  wondering  face  to  the  story  which  he  told 
of  struggle  in  that  new  western  land.  She  heard  how 
the  legions  of  slavery  overran  the  border ;  how  homes 
were  ravaged  and  burned  ;  the  stock  driven  off  and  crops 
destroyed.  Oh !  many  a  heart  stood  still  as  the  tale  of 
murder  was  told — cruel,  unprovoked,  save  by  the  advo- 
cacy of  free  thought  and  free  speech.  He  told  how, 
under  the  forms  of  law,  men  were  arrested,  torn  from 
their  families,  exposed  to  every  privation  and  torture ; 
and  even  women  and  children  made  victims  by  infu- 
riate bands  to  whom  slavery  seemed  fair  and  sacred, 
and  liberty — the  liberty  of  the  colored  man — foul  and 
unmeasurable  wrong  to  the  white  man.  The  avidience 
listened  breathlessly.  Mrs.  Kortright  thanked  God  in 
her  heart  that  Martin  was  not  present.  She  Avas  sure 
that  no  power  could  restrain  him  should  he  hear  this 
impassioned  plea. 

The  light  poured  out  of  the  windows  and  shone  with 
a  red,  fitful  glare  upon  the  windows  of  the  factory  op-^ 


360  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

posite.  The  clouds  shut  in  the  moon.  The  wind  whirled 
in  boisterous  gusts  through  the  unpaved  streets.  How 
the  factory  windows  glowed  !  It  was  almost  ghostly  the 
red  reflection  from  the  lighted  hall.  One  could  almost 
fancy  the  usual  night  work  in  progress.  What  a  I'ow 
of  glittering  panes  !  Two  hundred  and  forty  feet  of 
shafting  in  one  line  !  All !  what  a  forest  of  belts  and 
pulleys  and  wheels  !  How  the  floor  was  studded  with 
wondrous  combinations  of  wood  and  iron  !  How  many 
polished  forms,  now  cold  and  dead,  would  wake  to  life 
when  the  water  was  turned  on  upon  the  morrow  !  Win- 
dows !  Ah,  the  whole  front  was  studded  with  them  ! 
Light  is  as  important  to  the  work  done  in  this  mill, 
which  is  the  pride  of  Harrison  Kortright's  heart — the 
crown  and  climax  of  his  ■  success — as  the  great  wheel 
which  gives  power  to  the  polished  shaft  and  life  to  the 
flying  belts  !  Ah,  what  an  array  of  windows  !  How  they 
glow  in  the  reflected  light.  How  clear  the  sashes  show 
between  the  panes  ! 

Harrison  Kortright,  looking  past  the  speaker,  sees 
them  through  the  windows  of  the  hall.  His  bosom 
swells  with  self-reproach  as  he  thinks  of  the  wealth 
those  gleaming  windows  represent,  and  remembers 
how  little  he  has  done  for  the  cause  the  orator  is  pre- 
senting. He  turns  his  eyes  again  with  admiration  and 
resolve  toward  the  speaker.  He  will  give  liberally  to 
aid  the  Kansas  pioneers.  As  God  has  dealt  generously 
with  him  so  will  he  deal  with  his  oppressed  and  needy 
fellows.  Then  he  remembered  how  plainly  the  sashes 
showed  in  the  windows  a  hundred  yards  away.  It  was 
queer.  He  had  never  thought  the  whole  front  of  the  fac- 
tory would  be  so  lighted  up  with  the  glare  from  the  hall. 
It  was  so  red,  too.  It  must  be  on  account  of  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night.  He  looked  again.  The  windows 
were  still  brighter  than  before  !  and — what  a  silly 
dreamer  he  was — he  could  almost  swear  that  he  saw 


A  HARD  BABGAIK  361 

the  polit^hed  shafts  and  idle  belts  !  No— the  machinery 
was  in  motion !  He  almost  laughed  outright  as  he 
thought  what  a  silly  fool  he  was.  He  had  studied  it  so 
much  that  he  saw  it,  as  it  was  by  day,  even  through  the 
night  and  the  distance.  It  was  queer.  It  must  be  one 
of  those  optical  delusions  wliich  we  are  all  subject  to  at 
times.  It  was  strange  that  he  could  see  only  the  windows 
of  the  second  story,  too.  He  remembered  that  they 
were  just  on  a  level  with  those  of  the  hall.  He  had 
sighted  across  the  sills  one  day  while  they  were  put- 
ting them  in  and  ascertained  that  fact.  So  the  angle 
was  just  right  for  him  to  catch  the  reflection.  Yet  it 
was  strange  the  first  and  third  stories  were  so  dark. 
And  the  second  was  growing  lighter  !  It  was — could  it 
be  ?  He  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  left  hand  to  look  the 
closer.  The  right,  which  grasped  his  cane,  grew  rigid 
as  he  gazed.  His  face  could  not  be  more  colorless  or 
inscrutable,  but  the  light  went  out  of  his  eyes — the  lines 
about  his  mouth  grew  deeper. 

There  was  a  cry  without. 

The  orator  paused. 

Harrison  Kortright  was  at  his  side  in  a  moment  and 
whispering  in  his  ear,  "There  must  be  no  alarm.  If 
there  is  a  rush  a  hundred  will  be  trampled  to  death." 

The  speaker  understood,  and  pressed  his  hand  in 
silence. 

"Fire!" 

One  shrill,  wild  cry,  that  the  winds  took  up  and 
whirled  away  into  the  night.  The  audience  looked 
from  one  to  another  in  questioning  surprise.  Thank 
God,  the  windows  were  too  high  for  them  to  see  what 
was  visible  from  the  the  platform.  The  door  was  upon 
the  opposite  side  of  the  building,  too. 

"  Fire  !  Fire  !" 

There  were  two  voices  now,  but  the  wind  whistled 
and  mocked  at  them,    Some  of  the  audience  started  from 


362  HOT  PL 0  W SHARES. 

their  seats.  The  speaker  held  up  his  right  hand,  the 
pahu  toward  them.  The  buzz  of  alarm  subsided  instantly. 

"  This,"  said  the  orator,  "is  no  doubt  a  trick  of  the 
enem}'." 

"Fire!  Fire  !  Fire!" 

There  were  three  voices  now,  and  the  wind  could  not 
drown  them.  Kortright  whispered  in  the  speaker's  ear. 
Shields  looked  from  the  speaker  to  the  audience  in  sur- 
prise. 

"It  is  not,"  said  the  speaker,  "  the  first  time  that  an 
alarm  of  fire  has  been  raised  to  break  up  an  Abolition 
meeting  !" 

The  windows  of  the  mill  Avere  light  enough  now. 
The  wheels  were  turning,  the  belts  flying,  the  empty 
arms  of  the  machines  clashing  and  flashing  against  the 
red  flames  that  lighted  up  the  panes. 

''  Fire  !  Clang  !  Boom  !  Fire  !" 

The  alarm-bell  joined  it-  terrors  to  the  voices  of 
shouting  men  without, 

"Keep  quiet!"  said  Kortright  sternly.  "They've 
probably  made  a  bonfire  on  the  pubUc  square." 

"It  is  just  time  to  close  our  meeting,  anyhow,"  said 
the  orator,  consulting  his  watch. 

A  fcAv  started  toward  the  door. 

"Don't  be  in  a  hurry,"  said  the  speaker  pleasantly. 
"  The  band  will  now  play  '  The  Star-spangled  Banner."  " 

The  band  played.  The  audience  was  uneasy.  Very 
many  started  to  go  out. 

"  We  will  meet  here  to-morrow  at  twelve  to  see  our 
l)oys  off"  for  Kansas  !"  shouted  Kortright  in  a  pause  of 
the  music.     "  Don't  forget  it." 

The  blare  of  the  trumpets  filled  the  hall.  The  people, 
i-eassured  by  his  words  and  manner,  moved  quietly 
toward  the  stairs ;  Harrison  Kortright  watched  anx- 
iously, clasping  his  friend's  hand  as  if  in  congratula- 
tion   and    speaking   to   him    Avith    careless    animation. 


A  HARD  B  AEG  Am.  863 

They  stepped  toward  Shields  and  turned  his  attention 
another  way.  Tlie  hall  was  half  emptied  of  the  unsus- 
pecting hearers,  when  up  the  stairway  came  the  roar  of 
many  voices  : 

"  Fire  !  Fire  !    Kortright's  mill  is  on  fire  !'^ 

Outside,  the  rush  of  many  feet,  the  clamor  of  unnum- 
bered voices  and  the  clang  of  the  alarm-bell  mingled  on 
the  breeze.  The  three  men  on  the  platform  turned  to- 
ward the  window  and  saw  the  red  Hame  and  dense  clouds 
of  prisoned  smoke  burst  through  the  flashing,  crashing 
panes  and  roll  upward  arouud  the  doomed  building. 

"Thank  God!"  said  Kortright,  "no  life  has  been 
lost." 

Then  he  rushed  off  the  platform,  spoke  a  word  of 
cheer  to  his  white-faced  wife,  who,  standing  upon  a 
chair,  was  gazing  at  the  scene  of  desolation,  and  in  a 
moment  more  was  out  of  doors  directing  and  stimulating 
the  eftbrts  of  the  people  to  control  the  fire. 

From  end  to  end  the  great  factory  was  now  wrapped 
in  a  sheet  of  red,  leaping,  smoke-tipped  flame.  The 
whole  second  story  was  ablaze.  The  fire  leaped  out  of 
the  windows  on  either  side ;  ran  up  the  wooden  walls  ; 
cUmbed  upon  the  roof;  burst  through  the  floor  into  the 
third  story  and  ate  its  way  downward  into  the  first. 
The  wind  tossed  the  flames  about  in  wild  mockery.  It 
caught  up  burning  fragments  and  bore  them  here  and 
there.  It  swept  the  flames  down  upon  the  pallid  multi- 
tude, who  gazed  helplessly  on  the  havoc  that  was  being 
wrought,  and  scattered  them  with  its  fierce  breath.  The 
light  flashed  up  against  the  clouds  and  painted  their 
darkness  with  lurid  colors.  A  hungry  roar  went  up  from 
the  devouring  flames  as  if  an  insensate  demon  asked  for 
more. 

The  firemen  tried  in  vain  to  save  the  nearest  building. 
The  factories  stood  thick  along  the  banks  of  the  narrow 
rivulet,     The  hill  rose  sliarply  just  behind   them  and. 


364  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

across  the  narrow  street  stood  thick  and  close  the  houses 
of  the  workingmen.  The  wind  blew  from  the  south- 
westward.  In  front  of  this  factory  was  the  pubUc  square 
and  the  hall  beyond.  Mrs.  Kortright,  with  her  face 
pressed  against  the  window,  saAV  her  husband,  his  gray 
hair  and  white  upturned  face  lighted  by  the  flames,  stop 
the  firemen  who  were  trying  to  save  the  mill  above,  which 
was  his  own,  and  lead  them  down  to  that  which  stood 
below,  in  which  he  had  no  interest.  But  this  lay  in  the 
path  of  the  flames,  between  the  blazing  factory  and  the 
people's  houses — between  it  and  a  score  of  other  mills 
and  factories  below.  Side  by  side  with  him  was  Daw- 
son Fox — the  self-constituted  leader  of  the  men  he  was 
addressing  but  a  moment  before.  She  saw  the  fire-light 
shine  on  his  flushed  fac&.  His  long,  light  beard  floated 
on  the  wind  that  was  now  a  gale.  His  eye  flashed  as  he 
half  turned  his  face  toward  her  and  waved  his  hand  in 
the  direction  of  the  houses  on  the  exposed  hillside  below. 
She  knew  all  in  a  moment.  Thej^  were  going  to  aban- 
don the  factory  in  the  attempt  to  save  the  dwellings. 

Already  the  people  had  divined  their  danger,  and  the 
panic-stricken  crowd  rushed  each  to  his  OAvn  threshold. 
Men,  women  and  children  were  stripping  the  houses  in 
hot  haste.  Whatever  was  deemed  most  precious  was 
seized  first  and  carried  to  a  place  of  safety  or  aban- 
doned for  something  more  valuable.  It  was  a  mad, 
raging  crowd,  and  in  their  terror  they  despoiled  them- 
selves almost  as  much  as  the  fiend  that  followed  hard 
upon  their  footsteps  would  have  done. 

She  started  to  go.  Her  husband  had  bidden  her  to 
wait  there  in  safety.  She  paused ;  then  laid  aside  her 
Avrappings ;  tied  a  red  scarf  about  her  head ;  flung  her 
India  shawl  about  her  chest  scarf-wise,  and  went  out  to 
aid  in  bringing  order  out  of  confusion  —  to  cheer  the 
men  who  stood  in  the  pathway  of  the  flame  and  bade 
defiance  to  its  lurid  vrrath. 


A  HARD  BARGAIN.  365 

Dawson  Fox,  with  a  gallant  baud  who  followed  his 
lead  without  question,  was  at  the  apex  of  the  flame  that 
crept  swiftly  and  fiercely  toward  the  factory  below  and 
was  already  scorching  with  its  hot  breath  the  first  of  the 
tenement-houses  across  the  street. 

"Only  hold  it  back  a  little,"  Kortright  had  said  to 
him  hoarsely,  "until  I  can  get  this  wild  mob  organized 
so  that  we  can  fight  it  inch  by  inch.  Of  course,  Smith's 
factory  must  go ;  but  we  may  be  able  to  save  the  houses- 
some  of  them  at  least.  Those  who  own  them  cannot 
afford  to  lose  them.'" 

Fortunately  the  flumes  were  full.  The  little  hand- 
engine— the  pride  of  the  tillage  on  its  hohday  parades- 
sucked  the  water  from  the  race  that  ran  in  front  of  the 
mill  and  threw  it  on  the  flame  through  only  a  single 
length  of  hose.  Strong  arms  manned  the  brakes,  and 
as  one  dropped  off'  wearied  with  the  terrific  exertion, 
another  took  his  place.  The  men's  faces  glowed  with 
excitement  and  perspiration.  They  dipped  water  from 
the  race  to  slake  their  thirst.  The  water  cracked  and 
spluttered  as  it  left  the  nozzle;  hissed  weakly  as  it 
struck  the  flame-wrapped  building,  or  was  transformed 
into  clouds  of  vapor  that  showed  soft  and  fleecy  against 
the  red  light  and  dense  up-rolling  billows  of  smoke. 
Then  the  wind  swept  the  flame  down  into  their  faces. 
The  smoke  and  soot  choked  them.  The  heat  singed 
their  eyebrows  and  bUstered  their  arms  and  faces.  They 
fell  back  along  the  canal  a  few  steps,  and  renewed  the 
conflict.  Kearer  and  nearer  crept  the  flame  to  the 
doomed  factory  below— nearer  and  nearer  to  the  doomed 
dweUings  across  the  narrow  street.  Fainter  and  more 
hopeless  grew  the  struggle  of  the  puny  engine  with  the 
mighty  conflagration. 

But  every  moment  Kortright  was  educing  order  out 
of  confusion.  Already  the  corner  house,  which  was 
most  threatened,  was  swathed  in  dripping  blankets  from 


366  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

sill  to  ridge-pole.  Ladders  were  placed  at  the  farther 
side,  up  which  buckets  were  passed  to  men  upon  the 
roof.  They  knew  that  it  must  go  eventually,  but  while 
they  held  it  -  the  movable  belongings  of  other  homes 
were  being  rapidly  and  systematically  removed  to  a  place 
of  safety. 

All  at  once  the  race  began  to  overflow.  The  engine 
was  with  difficulty  dragged  across  a  narrow  bridge, 
whose  planks  were  already  floating  away.  The  mill  be- 
low was  abandoned  to  its  fate.  Its  upper  gable  was 
hardly  ten  yards  away  from  the  blazing  pile.  Already 
the  flames  seemed  about  to  leap  across  the  intervening 
space. 

The  owner  of  the  imperiled  mill  had  wrought  like  a 
Hercules  for  its  preservation. 

"  It 's  no  use  !"  he  said,  when  it  was  proposed  to  carry 
the  hose  across  the  race  and  keep  up  the  struggle.  "  It 's 
no  use.     Forty  such  engines  couldn't  save  it.'' 

"I'm  afraid  that's  so,"  said  Kortright.  ''If  there 
was  a  chance  we  'd  take  it.  The  only  thing  now  is  to 
save  the  houses  if  we  can." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  owner  dejectedly.  Then  suddenly, 
as  if  a  new  thought  had  occurred  to  him,  "  How  came 
the  water  to  be  turned  on  to-night,  'Squire  ?" 

"How  came  the  water  to  be  turned  on?"  echoed 
Kortright  angrily.  "How  came  that  mill  on  fii-e  ?"  he 
asked,  pointing  to  the  flaming  pile. 

"  Reallj^  I  don't  know.  Some  accident,  I  suppose," 
said  the  other,  somewhat  abashed  by  his  impetuosity. 

"Accident?"  said  Kortright  scornfullj' ;  "the  gate 
was  raised  and  the  machinery  was  running  when  the 
fire  broke  out  ?" 

"So?  I  remember  now,"  said  the  other;  "though  I 
had  not  thought  of  it  before." 

"  You  can  hear  the  wheel  now  ?" 

The  other  listened. 


A  HARD  BARGAIN.  3fi7 

"That's  a  fact,"  with  a  look  of  horror.     "It   must 
have  been  set  on  fire." 
"Unquestionably." 
"  By  whom  ?" 
"God  only  knows  1" 

"  You  have  not  an  enemy  in  Skendoah." 
"Not  that  I  know  of." 
"  Then  why— ?" 

"See  here,  Smith,"  said  Kortright,  turning  on  him 
fiercely,  "if  I  have  not  an  enemy  in  Skendoah,  liberty 
has  I" 

"  You  don't  mean—  ?" 

"Aren't  you  hurt  as  well  as  I?"  pointing  to  the  ex- 
posed gable  that  was  already  beginning  to  smoke. 

"Ruined,  ruined,  sir,"  shaking  his  head  hopelessly. 
"  Every  cent  lost,  and  a  load  of  debt  beside." 
"Where  were  you  an  hour  ago?" 
"In  the  hall." 

"And  those   people?"    jerking  his  thumb  over  his 
shoulder  toward  the  dwelUngs  in  the  rear. 
"At  the  hall,  too." 

"Don't  you  see  who  the  man  meant  to  strike  at  that 
lighted  that  fire,  started  my  machinery  and  lifted  that 
gate  ?" 

"  My  God  !  you  don't  mean—  ?" 

"Of  course  I  do!"  hissed  Kortright  through  his  set 
teeth,  "but,  God  helping  me,  he  shall  fail." 

"You  don't  expect   to   save   anything  below  here," 
with  a  wave  of  the  hand  taking  in  half  the  town. 
"I  will,"  fiercely. 
"How?" 
"I  don't  know." 
"I guess  not.     It  can't  be  done." 
"Hark!  What  is  that  ?" 

A  dull,  heavy  sound  was  heard  as  he  spoke.  It  was 
not  the  rumble  of   the  wheel  beneath  the  fated   mill 


368  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

or  the  rush  of  the  devouring  flames,  but  a  muffled  roar 
that  shook  the  earth  beneath  them.  Every  one  stopped 
and  Ustened  in  amazement.  Then  a  man  who  stood 
upon  the  bridge  that  spanned  the  stream  a  hundred 
yards  below,  looked  up  toward  the  great  dam,  and  saw 
a  strange  white  Something  leap  out  of  the  darkness,  out 
of  the  very  base  of  the  great  Avail  which  had  so  long 
imprisoned  the  waters  of  Memnona,  and  rush  down  the 
old  bed  of  the  torrent.  He  saw  it  swell  and  rise  until 
it  filled  and  overflowed  the  narrow  channel  which  had 
been  almost  closed  up  and  built  over  since  the  waters 
had  been  shut  up  behind  the  great  wall  of  earth  and 
stone.  He  beheld  its  wliite  crest  flash  beneath  the  red 
rays  of  the  burning  mill  before  he  half  comprehended 
what  it  meant.  Then  lie  rushed  across  the  bridge 
toward  the  breathless,  waiting  crowd  and  cried  : 

"  The  dam  's  broke  !  The  lake  's  coming !" 

"Impossible!"  said  Smith,  incredulovisly. 

"Impossible!"  said  Kortright,  decidedly,  remember- 
ing the  foundations  on  which  it  rested. 

"  Impossible  !"  echoed  every  one  who  heard. 

All  waited  breathlessly. 

The  roar  grew  louder.  The  earth  trembled  beneath 
their  feet.  The  flames  burned  unheeded.  Dawson  Fox 
stepped  to  the  side  of  Mrs.  Kortright,  as  if  apprehen- 
sive for  her  safety.  She  had  been  one  of  the  most  ac- 
tive. Her  example  had  done  much  to  quiet  the  panic 
which  had  at  first  seized  men  as  well  as  women.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  white-haired  man  in  the  middle 
of  the  street.  He  stood  listening,  wondering.  All  at 
once  he  raised  his  head,  and,  with  uplifted  hands, 
shouted  : 

"Thank  God  !  Thank  God  !" 

Those  who  heard  him  thought  Harrison  Kortright 
had  suddenly  become  crazed. 

"  Mr.  Smith  !"  he  cried.     "  Sejanus  Smith  !" 


A  HARD  BARGAIN.  369 

"  Here !"  answered  the  proprietor,  who  had  stepped 
back  a  few  paces  in  apprehension. 

"  What  will  you  take  for  that  mill  ?" 

The  fire  was  already  curling  up  the  smoking  clap- 
boards, 

"  In  addition  to  the  insurance  ?"  cautiously. 

"  Yes,  in  addition  to  that." 

"  Ten  cents,"  contemptuously. 

"  I  will  give  you  ten  thousand  dollars  !" 

"What?" 

"  I  will  give  you  ten  thousand  dollars." 

"  It  is  sure  to  burn. " 

"  Of  course.     Will  you  take  it  ?" 

"  Certainly,  if  you  mean  it." 

' '  All  right !     Shake  hands ! ' ' 

The  two  men  clasped  each  other's  hands  in  the  street. 
The  bargain  was  confirmed.  The  hot  breath  of  the 
flame  swept  over  them.  They  were  almost  alone  on 
the  bank  of  the  race.  The  crowd  wondered  what  it 
meant. 

The  flame  leaped  across  the  narrow  space,  and,  with 
a  roar  like  that  of  artillery,  the  gable  of  the  mill  Kort- 
right  had  just  purchased  burst  into  a  blaze  from  sill 
to  cornice. 


CHAPTEE  XXX. 

A  GOOD  INVESTMENT. 

A  GROAN  that  was  heard  above  the  roar  of  the  flames 
burst  from  the  crowd  who  were  watching  the  conflagra- 
tion. The  last  faint  ray  of  hope  had  disappeared.  Up 
to  that  moment  it  had  seemed  possible  to  prevent  the 
spread  of  the  flames.  The  factory  that  was  already 
half- consumed  was  farther  removed  from  the  other 
buildings  of  the  town  than  any  of  the  others,  because 
of  the  open  square  in  front  of  it.  It  is  true  that  the 
wind  drove  the  fire  directly  toward  the  corner  of  a 
block,  but  the  street  with  the  overflowing  race  was  be- 
tween them,  and  it  was  believed  that  with  the  most 
strenuous  exertions  it  might  be  saved.  For  this  Harri- 
son Kortright  had  abundantly  provided,  and  for  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour — an  interval  that  seems  nothing  less 
than  an  age  at  such  a  time — the  efforts  of  all  had  been 
directed  to  that  end.  Smith's  factory,  however,  which 
was  now  on  fire,  owing  to  a  bend  in  the  stream  which 
was  followed  by  the  street  was  thrust  like  a  wedge  into 
the  most  thickly-built  portion  of  the  town.  Its  lower 
end,  with  hardly  the  interval  of  a  yard,  overlapped  for 
half  its  width  another  monster  mill,  whose  destruction 
was  inevitable  if  the  flames  consumed  the  one  they  had 
now  attacked.  Along  the  whole  front  of  these,  dwell- 
ings and  business  houses  were  thickly  built  just  beyond 
the  narrow  street.  These  the  demoralized  crowd  were 
about  to  attack  in  the  hope  of  saving  whatever  could  be 
borne  away.  Already  they  had  begun  to  break  open 
370 


A   GOOD  INVESTMENT.  371 

the  doors  and  windows,  when  the  voice  of  Harrison 
Kortright  was  heard  exclaiming  : 

"I  want  fifty  good  men  to  help  me  save  Skendoah. 
Every  man  who  is  willing  to  obey  me,  step  forward  1" 

More  than  a  hundred  were  about  him  in  an  instant. 
That  he  might  be  the  better  heard,  he  sprang  upon  a 
box,  which  had  been  carried  half  across  the  street  and 
abandoned. 

"Gentlemen,  if  you  will  follow  my  directions,  I  will 
save  the  town." 

There  was  an  incredulous  silence. 

' '  I  see  you  do  not  believe  me.  You  did  not  believe 
me  when  I  set  out  to  build  the  town,  either." 

There  were  cries  of  "That's  so!"  "Goon!"  "Hur- 
rah for  'Squire  Kortright !"  It  was  a  vote  of  confi- 
dence—elliptical but  sincere.  The  man  who  had  cre- 
ated the  town  out  of  nothing  might  surely  be  trusted 
to  save  it  if  possible.  The  crowd  gathered  closer  and 
listened  attentively. 

"  I  am  not  surprised  that  you  hardly  believe  it,  but  I 
mean  what  I  say.  You  all  know  me,  and  you  know  I 
am  not  accustomed  to  give  fancy  prices  for  anything. 
Isn't  that  so '?" 

"  That 's  truth.     No  doubt  of  that !" 

"Well,  I've  just  invested  a  little  more  in  Skendoah 
property.  You  know  I  sold  Smith  his  water-right  and 
land  a  few  years  ago  for  three  thousand  dollars.  "Well, 
I  've  just  bought  it  back  for  ten." 

"  Ah,  the  divil !  It  '11  be  many  a  long  day  afore  ye  '11 
see  the  money  back,  I'm  thinkin',"  said  a  quick-witted 
Irishman. 

"I  never  shall  see  it  back  unless  we  save  the  town, 
and  we  can  do  that  if  every  man  will  act  as  I  direct. 
Will  you  do  it  ?" 

"Aye  1  Aye !" 

"  Then  we  must  organize.     I  will  name  a  few  whom 


373  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

all  must  obey.  As  I  call  their  names,  let  them  come 
forward  and  receive  orders.'' 

He  glanced  sharply  over  the  crowd,  and  by  the  light 
of  the  fire  quickly  selected  his  lieutenants.  As  they  came 
up  he  gave  one  after  another  his  instructions,  and  the 
crowd  was  soon  dispersed  to  their  execution,  except  half 
a  dozen  who  remained  grouped  around  their  gray-haired 
leader.  It  was  evident  at  once  that  the  confidence  which 
had  been  expressed  by  those  about  him  was  shared  by 
all  to  whom  Kortright's  determination  was  conveyed. 
The  panic  was  quickly  suppressed,  and  the  crowd  quietly 
urged  back  by  those  whom  he  had  detailed  for  that  pur- 
pose. Then  he  spoke  a  few  words  to  the  men  who  re- 
mained, laying  his  hand  impressively  upon  the  shoulder 
of  the  man  he  had  chosen  to  be  their  leader. 

"I  know,"  said  he,  "  that  it  is  a  dangerous  duty,  and 
I  have  selected  you  men  because  I  know  you  will  not 
flinch.  If  you  succeed,  the  town  is  safe.  If  not,  Har- 
rison Kortright  will  be  with  you.  I  never  ask  a  man  to 
do  what  I  would  shrink  from  myself." 

"  We  '11  'tend  to  it,  boss ;  you  never  mind,"  said  one. 

"  No,"  said  Kortright,  decidedly.  "  You  bring  it  here 
and  I  will  do  the  rest.  Kemember,  you  have  promised 
to  obey." 

"Yes,  but— " 

"  Make  haste  !    There  is  not  a  minute  to  lose  !" 

He  waved  his  hand  imperiously  and  the  men  started 
off  at  a  run. 

Dawson  Fox  stepped  forward  and  took  Kortright's 
hand.     He  had  heard  every  word. 

"  Let  me  do  this,"  he  said,  looking  up  into  the  other's 
face. 

"You  cannot,"  decidedly. 

"But  I—" 

"You  know  nothing  of  the  premises.     The  man  who 


A    GOOD  INVESTMENT.  373 

is  to  do  that  must  have  every  foot  of  that  mill  as  clear 
in  his  mind  as  that  tire  is  in  yom*  eye." 

"Then  I  think  I  ought  to  be  the  man,"  said  the  re- 
cent owner  hesitatingly. 

He  liad  stood  by  and  heard  the  plan  which  Kortright 
had  devised.  The  firelight  shone  on  his  face.  It  was 
pale,  but  his  lips  were  shut  tightly  and  his  voice  was 
steady. 

Kortright  gave  him  his  hand. 

"You  are  a  young  man,  Smith,  with  a  young  family. 
Besides,"  with  a  smile,  "it  is  my  mill,  you  know.  By 
the  way,  Fox,  you  will  remember  if  anything  happens 
to  me  that  I  owe  Sejanus  Smith  ten  thousand  dollars." 

"  And  what  shall  I  do  ?"  asked  Smith,  huskily.  There 
must  be  something —  " 

"Yes,  certainly.  Get  your  men  ready  and  some  of 
Tanner's,  and,  as  soon  as  it  is  over,  cover  the  gable  of 
Tanner's  mill  with  wet  blankets  and  throw  up  an  em- 
bankment at  the  lower  end  of  your  mill.  It  would  be  a 
good  thing  if  you  could  dam  the  race,  too." 

"All  right,"  said  Smith,  as  he  started  off,  "It  shall 
be  done  !" 

"And  I,"  said  Dawson  Fox,  looking  reverently  upon 
the  white-faced  man  who  stepped  down  from  the  box 
and  glanced  sharply  round  at  the  flames,  "What  shall 
I  do?" 

Harrison  Kortright  looked  swiftly  up  and  down  the 
flame-lit  street  before  he  ansAvered.  The  engine  had 
been  driven  from  the  race  by  the  heat  and  was  now 
plying  from  some  well  or  cistern  on  the  exposed  corner. 
Men  were  on  the  roofs  along  the  whole  row  of  buildings, 
supplied  with  buckets,  to  put  out  the  coals  and  cinders 
that  might  fall  upon  the  shingle  roofs.  Others  patroled 
the  street  similarly  equipped  and  watched  the  fronts  of 
the  buildings.  The  crowd  had  disappeared.  Kort- 
right's  eyes  beamed  with  satisfactioa  as  he  saw  how 


374  HOT  PL 0  W8HARE8. 

readily  his  instructions  had  been  carried  out.  At  the 
entrance  to  an  alley  almost  opposite  he  saw  his  wife 
watching  him  with  a  countenance  full  of  anxiety. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?"  repeated  Dawson  Fox. 

"You,"  said  Kortright,  solemnly,  "You  will  look 
after  Mattie !"  His  lip  quivered  and  the  clasp  of  his 
hand  was  like  a  vise,  but  his  voice  was  firm. 

"  But  I  would  rather — " 

"You  cannot  do  what  is  to  be  done.  If  you  stay 
with  me  she  will  be  alone.  If  you  are  with  her  I  know 
she  will  be  safe." 

Dawson  Fox    bowed,   Avrung    his    hand   and  turned 
away  just  as  the  men  who  had  been  sent  away  returned 
bearing  between  them  through  the  heated  street  a  num- 
ber of  kegs,  each  of  which  was  marked  : 
"  Poa-fZe?-." 

Placing  himself  at  the  head  of  these  men  Kortright 
crossed  the  race  and  entered  the  building  he  had  so 
recently  purchased,  the  upper  end  of  which  was  already 
aflame,  while  the  heated  currents  of  smoke  rolled 
through  the  upper  stories,  scorching  and  searing  like 
the  blast  of  a  furnace.  Dawson  Fox  re-crossed  the 
street  and  took  his  place  by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Kort- 
right in  the  shadow  of  a  brick  building  where  she 
stood.  An  instant  afterward  all  but  one  of  the  men  re- 
turned, and,  running  up  and  down  the  street,  cautioned 
every  one  to  retire  to  a  place  of  safety.  After  a  mo- 
ment Harrison  Kortright  and  the  foreman  of  the  mill, 
who  had  remained  with  him,  came  out,  and  seeing  that 
all  were  out  of  danger,  the  former,  after  some  protes- 
tation on  the  part  of  his  companion,  went  again  into 
the  mill.  The  foreman  stepped  nervously  toward  the 
narrow  foot-bridge  that  crossed  the  race.  The  shouting 
was  hushed.  Only  the  sound  of  the  flames  was  heard, 
and  the  roar  of  rushing  Avaters.  Around  every  corner 
peered  an  anxious  face.     Presently  Harrison  Kortright 


A    GOOD  INVESTMENT.  375 

rushed  out  through  smoke  that  was  now  pouriug  from 
every  door  and  window.  He  staggered,  half-bUnded, 
toward  the  foot-bridge.  Seeing  the  foreman  waiting 
there  he  cried  out : 

"  Kun  1  Run  !  It  is  all  right." 

The  man  turned  and  fled.  Harrison  Kortright  rushed 
ujion  the  bridge  as  fast  as  his  lameness  would  permit. 
Half-way  across  he  turned  as  if  to  see  that  the  train  he 
had  lighted  was  burning  properly.  As  he  did  so  his  foot 
fell  upon  the  end  of  a  loose  board ;  the  other  end  flew 
up,  and  in  an  instant  he  was  struggling  in  the  water. 
As  he  fell  a  shadow  darted  out  of  the  shaded  alley  op- 
posite, and  the  lookers-on  saw  Dawson  Fox  fly  across 
the  street  toward  him.  Just  as  he  reached  the  bank  of 
the  race  there  was  a  dull  roar  that  was  heard  above  the 
tumult  of  the  waters  and  the  rush  of  the  flame  that 
towered  above  the  doomed  building.  Then  the  walls  of 
the  lower  factory  trembled.  The  whole  structure  seemed 
to  be  lifted  up.  The  blazing  gable  was  thrown  back 
upon  the  pile  from  which  it  had  caught  the  flame. 
The  windows  bulged  outward.  The  roof  parted  at  the 
ridge-pole,  and  then  fell  inwards.  A  vast  cloud  of  black 
smoke  and  dust  shut  out  the  whole  from  sight,  and 
shot  upward  against  the  white,  fleecy  clouds  that  just 
then  had  opened  around  the  cold,  full  moon.  Then  there 
was  another  and  a  sharper  explosion.  The  earth  shook 
Avith  the  force  of  the  concussion.  A  thousand  pounds 
of  powder  had  been  exploded  beneath  the  mill.  The 
vast  pile  rose  and  crumbled.  A  bright  flash  shot  up- 
ward from  the  centre.  Tlien  the  whole  sank  down  into 
a  shapeless  mass.  The  air  seemed  full  of  broken  frag- 
ments. Pieces  of  the  shattered  building  rattled  like 
hail  upon  the  roofs  of  the  houses  opposite.  Mrs.  Kort- 
right started  to  rush  to  her  husband  through  the  shower 
of  fragments.     A  strong  arm  held  her  back. 

"It's  uo  use,  Mrs.  Kortright,"  said  Smith,  as  he  re- 


376  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

fu&ed  to  release  her.  "You  cannot  help  them.  The 
water  is  not  deep.  If  your  husband  is  not  hit  with  the 
falling  pieces  he  is  safe," 

A  moment  after  a  hundred  feet  were  hurrying  to  the 
place  where  Kortright  had  disappeared.  Dawson  Fox 
had  halted  for  an  instant  when  the  explosion  had  oc- 
curred, and  then  had  leaped  into  the  race.  Those  who 
came  to  the  rescue  saw  a  man  struggling  in  the  water. 
A  dozen  hands  seized  him  and  drew  him  forth.  Stran- 
gled, gasping,  dripping,  they  bore  him  to  the  middle  of 
the  street.  The  light  of  the  burning  mill  fell  on  the 
white,  drawn  face  of  Harrison  Kortright.  For  a  mo- 
ment all  else  was  forgotten.  Mrs.  Kortright  sat  in  the 
du^ty  roadway  with  his  head  upon  her  lap.  The  crowd 
rushed  forth  from  their  hiding  places  and  pressed  around 
with  anxious  faces.  Some  one  brought  a  torch  of 
blazing  fragments  and  held  it  near  him.  All  else  was 
forgotten  in  the  danger  of  the  founder  and  benefactor 
of  the  town.  The  village  doctor  made  a  hasty  exami- 
nation. The  patient  lay  pallid  and  gasping.  A  thou- 
sand suggestions  were  made.  His  breathing  grew 
stronger  and  more  regular.  The  richly-dressed  woman 
wiped  his  face  with  her  white  handkerchief,  and  held 
him  tightly  to  her  breast.  Presently  he  opened  his  eyes 
and  tried  to  speak.  The  physician  rose  and  said  cheer- 
fully : 

"He  is  not  hurt ;  only  strangled  and  confused." 

Then  there  was  a  shout.  They  took  him  in  their 
arms  to  bear  him  to  a  place  of  comfort  and  shelter.  He 
shook  himself  loose ;  sat  up ;  gazed  Avildly  about,  and 
chokingly  exclaimed  : 

"  Fox  !  Fox  !  where  is  he  V 

Where,  indeed  !  In  their  anxiety  for  their  friend  and 
neighbor  they  had  forgotten  the  stranger. 

Instant  search  was  made,  and  from  the  swollen  race 

This  one  was 


A    GOOD    TNVE8TMENT.  877 

silent  and  limp.  Xo  stertorous  gasp  gave  promise  of 
life.  When  his  face  was  turned  toward  the  fire-light  a 
deep  red  gash  showed  upon  the  temple,  and  the  hands 
of  those  who  held  his  head  were  deeply  stained  with 
blood.  The  physician  placed  his  thumb  upon  the  wound 
(and  felt  a  harsh,  dull  grating  answer  to  his  pressure.  He 
shook  his  head  hopelessly,  and  wiped  the  blood  from  his 
hand.  Dawson  Tox  was  dead.  A  fragment  of  the 
building  had  struck  him  as  he  stood  over  the  man  he 
^sought  to  rescue.  He  had  saved  the  husband  of  his 
boy-love  by  yielding  up  his  own  life  instead.  There 
were  many  tearful  eyes  that  marked  a  sad,  sweet  smile 
upon  the  cold  dead  face  as  it  lay  there  in  the  dusty 
roadway  lighted  by  the  raging  fire. 

Harrison  Kortright  heard  the  sad  tidings  and  offered 
no  more  resistance  to  those  who  would  bear  him  away. 
He  realized  as  no  one  else  could  the  sacrifice  that  had 
been  made  for  him.  He  remembered  the  brave,  set 
face  lighted  by  the  lurid  glow  of  the  explosion,  that  for 
a  moment  hung  over  him.  He  remembered  the  strong 
arms  that  for  an  instant  clasped  him  close,  held  him 
above  the  strangling  current  and  then  relaxed  their 
hold,  tremulous  and  weak,  while  he  who  had  come  to 
rescue  fell  prone  across  his  breasl  and  bore  him  again 
beneath  the  water. 

As  the  crowd  started  on  along  a  narrow  street  that 
led  up  the  hill-side  from  the  bank  of  the  stream  with 
their  sad  burden,  there  came  a  cry  from  those  whom 
Smith  had  rallied  to  protect  the  mill  below  : 

"  The  water  is  rising  !     The  bridge  has  gone  !" 

At  the  same  time  the  fiame  that  was  springing  up  in 
the  debris  of  the  explosion  began  to  hiss  and  splutter. 

"The  sMce-gates  are  open,"  said  Kortright  feebly. 
"It  is  all  right.  The  channel  is  too  narrow  and  the 
water  will  back  up  so  as  to  overfloAv  the  lower  story. 
Thank  God  !  the  town  is  safe," 


378  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

He  was  right.  The  loug  unused  channel  of  the  moun- 
tain torrent  had  been  so  obstructed  by  walls  and  piers 
that  when  the  tide  poured  out  of  the  sluice-gates  there 
was  not  space  for  it  to  flow  oft",  and  it  choked  and  fouled 
until  it  overspread  its  banks  and  poured  into  the  lower 
story  of  the  mills  that  stood  thick  along  its  course.  By 
this  means  the  fire  was  prevented  from  spreading,  and 
Skendoah  was  saved  from  a  disaster  which  for  a  time 
seemed  to  be  unavoidable.  Yet  the  tale  of  destruction 
was  not  yet  ended.  As  they  bore  the  living  and  the  dead 
up  the  hill  to  the  shelter  of  a  friendly  house  some  one 
uttered  an  exclamation  which  caused  all  to  look  around. 
Upon  the  dark  hill-side  beyond  the  roaring  torrent  that 
boiled  between,  a  sheet  of  yellow  flame  shot  up,  lighting 
the  whole  surrounding  region.  Mrs.  Kortright  saw  at  a 
glance  what  it  meant. 

"Move  on,  move  on  !"  she  cried  hastily  to  those  who 
bore  her  husband.  She  dreaded,  above  all  things,  lest 
his  dull  eyes  should  learn  the  truth.  Paradise  Bay  was 
wrapped  in  flame. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

ON  THE  DIVIDE. 

Skendoah  was  not  in  ashes,  but  a  black,  smoulder- 
ing gap  in  the  row  of  factories  along  the  bank  of  the 
stream  greeted  the  eyes  of  its  people  on  the  morning 
succeeding  the  events  of  our  last  chapter.  The  rush 
of  water  along  the  tortuous  channel  had  subsided. 
The  prisoned  lake  had  escaped  from  thralldom.  Only 
a  sparkling  rivulet  ran  along  the  muddy  bottom  of  the 
great  reservoir,  bustled  through  the  open  jaws  of  the 
huge  waste-gate,  and  foamed  and  flashed  in  the  long- 
unused  channel  below.  Flood  and  fire  had  both  de- 
spoiled the  little  town,  but  the  former  had  put  an  end 
to  the  ravages  of  the  latter.  By  what  means  the  gate 
had  been  opened,  and  whether  as  an  act  of  good  or 
evil  purpose,  no  one  knew.  At  any  other  time,  the 
flood  would  have  been  an  absolute  misfortune.  Coming 
as  it  did,  it  was  an  inestimable  blessing.  Yet  it  had  left 
rueful  marks  as  well  as  the  flame  it  quenched.  The 
street  across  which  the  battle  with  the  flames  had  been 
fought  had  been  submerged  a  few  moments  afterwards. 
The  water  pouring  through  the  gate,  impelled  by  the 
weight  of  the  accumulated  store  behind  the  dam,  would 
have  soon  overflowed  the  channel  had  it  been  straight 
and  unobstructed.  But  it  was  neither.  Little  by  little 
factories  and  bridges  had  encroached  upon  the  domain 
of  the  mountain  torrent,  until,  when  it  suddenly  burst 
loose,  it  was  to  find  its  way  choked  and  impeded  at 
every  turn.  It  tore  away  one  obstruction  after  an- 
other, only  to  heap  up  in  a  bend  just  below  the  village 
the  debris  of  its  fury,  until  its  tumultuous  rage  was,  for 
379 


380  HOT  PL 0  WSHARES. 

the  time,  effectually  checked.  Then  the  Abaters  began 
to  rise  in  the  town,  sullenly  and  silently  heaping  up 
behind  this  temporary  barrier,  until  they  crept  into 
the  lower  windows  of  the  factories,  caught  the  hissing 
cinders  that  fell  from  the  flaming  buildings,  passed 
beyond  the  farther  walls,  stole  across  the  street,  and 
choked  in  rising  vapor  the  conflagration  that  raged 
above  its  dark  and  angry  surface.  Lake  Memnona  Avas 
empty  once  more.  The  fire  was  extinguished.  The 
flood  had  subsided.  Dawson  Fox  was  dead.  Harrison 
Kortright  was  chained  to  his  bed  with  the  shackles  of  his 
old  enemy  newly  fastened  on  his  overwrought  system. 
On  the  hill-side  beyond,  a  black  smouldering  mass  lay 
among  the  scorched  and  blighted  trees  where  the  pret- 
tiest and  richest  of  the  mansions  of  Skendoah  had 
stood. 

"Who  did  it  ?"  was  the  inquiry  which  each  one  asked 
of  himself  and  his  neighbor.  The  idlers  who  gazed  at 
the  ruins,  loitered  about  the  streets  and  met  in  the 
doorways,  talked  of  nothing  else.  The  water  being 
turned  off,  the  remaining  mills  were  shut  down,  some  of 
them  that  the  damages  by  the  flood  might  be  repaired, 
and  the  others  because  there  was  no  inclination  on  the 
part  of  any  one  to  labor.  The  boys  played  up  and  down 
the  stream,  clambered  in  and  out  of  the  broken  windows 
of  the  mills,  burrowed  among  the  debris  of  the  overflow 
for  flotsam,  or  waded  about  upon  the  slimy  bottom  of 
the  pond  in  search  of  finny  prey  which  had  been  left 
among  the  ooze  by  the  sudden  decadence  of  the  waters. 
But  all  the  time  they  were  wondering,  like  their  elders, 
as  to  the  cause  of  the  calamity. 

In  the  town-hall,  on  a  plainly-draped  bier,  lay  the 
body- of  Dawson  Fox.  At  that  time  the  people  of  the 
little  country  town,  despite  its  sudden  dash  at  prosper- 
ity, had  not  learned  to  decorate  the  place  of  the  dead. 
Flowers  at  a  funeral  would  have  been  regarded  almost 


ON  THE  DIVIDE.  381 

as  a  sacrilege,  and  no  one  even  thought  of  draping  the 
banner  that  hung  hstlessly  above  the  platform,  the  cof- 
fin across.  All  was  cold,  dull  black,  save  the  fixed 
white  face,  with  its  framewoi-k  of  white  satin,  that  la}' 
within.  Solemn-faced  and  noiselessly  the  people  passed 
in  and  out.  A  jury  of  inquest  was  impaneled  in  the 
room  below,  and  came  up  in  a  body  to  view  the  corpse. 
There  needed  to  be  no  autopsy.  A  thousand  knew  the 
cause  of  death.  The  real  inquiry  was  as  to  the  cause 
of  the  fire. 

The   examination  was  a   profitless  one.     Many  wit- 
nesses were  called,  many  questions  asked  and  very  little 
learned.     A  few  facts  were  made  plain  : 
1.  The  gate  which  supplied  the  common  race  by  which 
all  the  mills  received   their  supply  of  water,  had 
been  closed  at  four  o'clock  on  the  day  previous,  by 
general  consent  of  the  owners  and  operatives. 
'2.  The  Avater  had  been  turned  off"  the  wheel  in  Kort- 
right's  mill  and  the  machinery  stopped,  by  express 
order  of  the  owner,  an  hour  earlier  than  the  time 
mentioned. 

3.  When  the  fire  was  discovered  at  about  a  quarter  to 

ten  o'clock  in  the  evening,  the  Avheel  was  running 
and  the  machinery  of  the  mill  in  motion. 

4.  The  waste-gate  was  not  opened  until  more  than  an 

hour  after  the  breaking  out  of  the  fire.  It  had  never 
been  opened  before  since  the  building  of  the  dam. 
It  was  reached  by  a  frame  of  timbers  that  extended 
above  the  dam  some  forty  feet  or  more,  into  the 
deepest  part  of  the  original  channel.  It  was  worked 
by  a  large  iron  screw,  M'hich  itself  was  operated  by 
means  of  a  wooden  lever  which  passed  through  its 
head.  To  open  these  gates  to  their  fullest  extent, 
as  they  were  found  the  next  morning,  with  a  head 
of  forty  feet  of  water  or  thereabouts  resting  against 


382  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

them,   was   a    task    requiring    no    little    time  and 

strength  for  its  accomplishment. 
5.  Paradise  Bay  was  discovered  to  be  on  fire  something 

more   than  half  an  hour  after  the  rush  of  water 

through  the  waste-gate  was  first  noted. 
From  these  facts  the  jury  concluded  that  Kortright's 
mill  and  Kortright's  house  were  set  on  fire  by  some  per- 
son desirous  of  doing  him  an  injury,  and  utterly  reckless 
as  to  those  who  might  share  in  the  calamity.  There 
were  some  other  incidents  which  served  more  to  confuse 
the  jury  than  to  aid  them  in  prosecuting  the  inquiry 
beyond  this  point.  Just  here  two  very  troublesome 
questions  arose  : 

1.  Why  was  the  machinery  of  the  mill  put  in  motion  ? 

2.  Why  were  the  waste-gates  opened  ? 

To  the  first,  the  most  evident  and  general  response 
was  that  it  was  done  through  sheer  wantonness  of 
malice.  To  the  second,  there  was  an  inclination  to 
reply  that  the  incendiary,  terrified  at  the  result  of  his 
work,  had  hit  upon  this  plan  to  extinguish  the  flames, 
and  repair,  to  some  extent,  the  evil  he  had  done. 

In  seeming  contradiction  of  this  theory,  however, 
was  the  fact  that  the  wooden  lever  used  to  open  the 
gates  was  found  in  the  road  half  way  to  Kortright's 
residence.  If  the  two  fires  were  regarded  as  the  work 
of  one  incendiary,  it  was  evident  that  after  kindling  the 
first  he  had  passed  along  the  top  of  the  dam,  opened  the 
sluice  and  then  lighted  the  second.  This  was  the  general 
belief.  Some  dwellers  in  the  upper  part  of  the  town 
testified  to  having  seen  a  dark  form  pass  and  repass 
along  the  crest  of  the  dam  while  the  fire  was  at  its 
height.  A  boy  who  had  come  from  a  farm-house  upon 
the  east  side  of  the  stream  to  witness  the  conflagration 
that  was  raging  l)eyond,  had  been  terrified  by  a  strange 
shape  that  rushed   at   him  with  an   uplifted  bludgeon 


ON  THE  DIVIDE.  383 

not  far  from  where  the  gate-lever  was  found.  He 
had  not  waited  for  further  inquiry,  but  fled  homeward 
across  the  fields  and  fences,  inspired  by  a  terror  that 
took  little  heed  of  obstacles.  His  story  was  so  confused 
and  absurd  that  little  heed  was  paid  to  it.  As  to  two 
points  all  were  agi'eed : 

1.  The  fire  was  the  work  of  an  incendiary. 

2.  The  said  incendiary  was  moved  and  instigated  by  a 

particular  malice  toward  Harrison  Kortright. 

Whether  this  malice  was  based  upon  a  more  general 
antipathy  to  the  cause  of  human  freedom,  which  Kort- 
right at  that  time  especially  represented,  was  a  question 
in  regard  to  which  there  was  great  difterence  of  opinion. 
The  majority — and  it  was  a  turbulent  and  loud-speak- 
ing majority — believed  this  to  be  the  case.  The  mi- 
nority— a  subdued  and  apologetic  one — pointed  to  the 
opening  of  the  sluice-gates  and  the  firing  only  of  Kort- 
right's  property  in  support  of  a  contrary  view.  The 
majority  sneered  at  this  as  absurd.  To  them  the  acts 
referred  to  were  only  part  of  a  preconcerted  plan  to 
escape  detection. 

So  the  jury  returned  a  verdict  which  was  true  in  one 
sense  no  doubt,  though  hardly  reasonable  in  a  legal 
sense,  that  Dawson  Fox  came  to  his  death  by  the  un- 
lawful and  incendiary  act  of  a  certain  person  or  per- 
sons to  them  unknown.  The  people  of  Skendoah  and 
of  the  country  round,  by  a  large  majority,  had  already 
decided,  however,  that  the  burning  of  Kortright's  mill, 
the  destruction  of  his  house,  and  the  death  of  Dawson 
Fox,  were  all  of  them  acts  of  the  opponents  of  personal 
liberty — outrages  of  the  pro-slavery  propagandists.  Of 
those  who  entertained  this  belief  Harrison  Kortright 
was  among  the  most  undoubting  and  sincere.  His  love 
of  Skendoah  and  his  desire  for  wealth  and  success  were 
at  once  swallowed  up  in  a  burning  zeal  for  justice  and 


384  HOT  PL  0  WSHARES. 

revenge.  He  saw  little  prospect  of  detecting  the  actual 
perpetrator  of  the  crime,  but  he  was  sure  that  he  knew 
its  motive.  So  he  lay  upon  his  sick  bed,  silent  but  alert, 
and  planned  with  firm-set  lips  and  flashing  e3'es  how 
he  would  strike  back  at  that  hated  institution  whose 
minions  he  never  once  doubted  had  given  his  propertj' 
to  the  flame  and  shed  the  blood  of  his  friend.  He  had 
been  a  firm  1:>ut  quiet  opponent  of  slavery  up  to  this 
time.  The  dead  man  who  rested  upon  his  bier  in  the 
town-hall,  the  "flaming  apostle  of  liberty  in  Kansas," 
had  been  dull  and  mild  when  compared  with  what  this 
calm,  gray-haired  man  of  business  resolved  that  he 
Avould  be  thereafter. 

.Tared  Clarkson,  who  had  come  to  sympathize  with 
one  friend  and  bury  another,  fierce  as  Avas  his  hatred  of 
the  "institution,"  shrank  in  s-jomething  of  terror  from  the 
burning  zeal  of  this  man  who  seemed  inspired  to  avenge 
the  death  of  his  friend,  net  upon  its  immediate  perpe- 
trators, but  on  what  he  deemed  the  remote  cause.  Mar- 
tin, summoned  by  news  of  the  disaster,  was  devoted 
in  the  very  moment  of  his  arrival  to  the  purpose  that 
filled  his  father's  heart.  Instead  of  five,  it  had  been 
decided  that  Skendoah  should  send  ten  men  to  uphold 
the  right  in  Kansas  ;  that  they  should  leave  upon  the 
morrow,  and  that  Martin  should  go  with  them.  They 
should  be  hona  fide  settlers,  too,  sworn  to  make  the 
virgin  territory'  free  soil.  He  himself  would  be  answer- 
able for  one-half  their  expenses  for  the  first  year.  The 
mother  sobbed  placidly  and  helplessly.  The  crippled 
magnate  was  a  king  whose  imperious  will  brooked  no 
denial.  The  son,  fired  by  the  events  which  had  oc- 
curred, took  his  father's  command  as  a  consecration. 
Already  his  heart  was  eager  for  the  conflict.  He  was 
impatient  of  the  days  that  must  intervene  before  he 
should  stand  upon  the  prairie  and  enter  the  camp  of 
'•Old  Brown."     He  saw,  with  his   lather's  eyes,  that 


ON  THE  DIVIDE.  385 

slavery  must  be  destroyed.  No  matter  what  it  might 
cost — war,  blood,  death — anything  were  better  than  the 
one  thing  he  was  called  upon  to  aid  in  sweeping  from 
the  earth.  In  his  zeal  he  forgot  his  promise  to  Har- 
grove. He  even  forgot  for  the  moment  that  sweet  pre- 
sence in  the  New  England  seminary,  who  was  to  be 
his  other-self — dimiditmi  mece^  he  had  already  begun  to 
call  her  in  the  stilted  Latin  phrase  of  the  college. 

The  funeral  was  in  the  afternoon.  Jared  Clarkson 
stood  by  the  open  bier,  and  in  noble  words  and  fervid 
accents  told  the  story  of  his  life  and  death.  Happy  the 
dead  who  had  such  an  eulogist !  The  people  listened 
quietly  but  sternly  to  his  words.  When  the  funeral  was 
over  there  was  a  meeting  in  the  town  hall.  Only  men 
attended  it,  and  they  were  stern-faced  and  angry-eyed. 
The  women  stayed  at  home  and  wondered  beneath 
their  breaths  Avhat  would  be  done.  There  was  very  little 
speaking.  They  adopted  resolutions  which  seemed  tame 
to  them,  but  were  regai'ded  as  incendiaxy  and  revolu- 
tionary by  all  the  world  which  saw  not  the  charred  ruins, 
and  the  cold,  dead  face.  Jared  Clarkson  Avrote  them. 
While  his  life  was  full  of  charity  his  pen  seemed  always 
tipped  with  venom.  The  people  of  Skendoah  declared 
thereby  that  Dawson  Fox  died  a  victim  of  political  hate  ; 
that  the  hand  that  held  the  torch  which  had  disfigured 
and  all  but  devastated  their  beautiful  village,  was  that  of 
the  great  enemy  of  man  and  liberty,  the  slave-power  of 
the  South.  This  was  recited  at  great  length,  and  with 
sundry  ingenious  rhetorical  flourishes.  It  will  be  noted 
that  there  was  not  a  particle  of  evidence  to  support  this 
conclusion,  yet  upon  it  the  popular  heart  rested  with 
the  most  undisturbed  confidence.  Of  the  ultimate  cause 
there  was  not  a  doubt ;  of  the  immediate  instrument, 
not  a  suspicion.  There  was  not  a  human  being  to  whom 
any  inhabitant  pointed  in  his  thought  even  and  said, 
.  "I  believe  that  his  hand  did  this  deed."     There  were  a 


386  HO  T  PLO  W SHARES. 

few  of  whom  all  men  said,  "  The}^  are  responsible  for 
this  evil."  They  were  those  who  had  sneered  at  his  en- 
terprises, and  carped  at  the  political  faith  of  Harrison 
Kortright — the  stubborn,  irreconcilable  minority  which 
is  to  be  found  in  every  communit}-,  men  born  in  the  op- 
position and  condemned  by  temperament  to  be  envious, 
if  not  malignant.  A  committee  of  public  safety  was 
also  organized,  whose  duty  it  was  to  take  ever}"-  possible 
means  to  ferret  out  the  crime.  This  was  needless. 
From  his  sick  bed  a  far  more  potent  spirit  was  already 
at  work.  Silently  and  coolly,  but  with  a  determination 
that  never  faltered,  Harrison  Kortright  set  himself  to 
discover  the  hand  that  had  smitten  him  in  the  darkness. 
Like  the  populace,  he  was  without  suspicion  of  any 
one.  Like  them,  too,  he  was  affected  with  distrust  of 
many.  He  was  actuated  not  less  by  a  desire  for  public 
safety  than  by  a  sense  of  personal  wrong,  but  most  of 
all  by  an  intense  desire  to  bring  to  punishment  the 
malefactors  whose  act  had  resulted  in  the  death  of 
his  friend.  Mrs.  Kortright  alone  did  not  believe  that 
the  accepted  theory  of  the  crime  vras  the  true  one. 
Without  opposing  his  plans,  she  insensibly  modified  her 
husband's  resentment  and  disarmed  his  distrust.  She 
had  no  pet  hypothesis.  To  her  the  events  of  that 
night  were  only  a  sad,  insoluble  mystery.  She  cared 
little  for  the  loss  of  propert}-.  The  death  of  the  man 
who  had  been  her  lover  and  had  come  back  after  many 
years  in  the  guise  of  so  sweet  a  friend,  Avhile  sor- 
rowful enough,  was  not  without  its  consolation.  His 
death  had  been  worthy  of  himself  at  his  best  estate. 
If  there  had  been  a  shade  of  weakness  in  his  life,  it 
was  removed  by  the  manner  of  his  death.  The  hint  of 
failure,  the  flavor  of  ill-success,  could  never  pass  this 
crowning  act  of  self-sacrifice.  His  was  a  memory  to  be 
cherished,  not  only  with  affection,  but  with  pride.  The 
loss  of  her  home  had  cut  her  to  the  heart.      She  re- 


OW  THE  DIVIDE.  387 

proached  herself  with  the  thought  that  it  brought  more 
sorrow  than  the  death  of  her  friend.  It  was  natural 
that  it  should.  The  home  upon  the  hill-side  had  bounded 
her  whole  life.  Whatever  change  had  come  in  their  con- 
dition, while  it  left  its  marks  upon  their  surroundings, 
expanding  and  enriching  the  homestead  from  time  to 
time,  until  to  the  eye  of  the  stranger  its  identity  seemed 
destroyed,  yet  to  her  it  had  always  remained  the  same. 
It  was  her  home.  Her  personality  fitted  into  every  niche 
along  with  that  of  her  husband.  In  losing  it  she  seemed 
to  have  lost  a  part  of  her  very  being.  It  was  the  back- 
ground on  which  all  her  existence  had  been  projected. 
These  feelings,  however,  were  swallowed  up  in  two  all- 
absorbing  sources  of  gratification— her  husband  lived, 
and  the  town  had  been  saved  from  destruction.  She 
did  not  beheve,  she  would  not  believe,  that  any  hand 
within  its  limits  had  been  lifted  to  strike  at  him.  She 
could  not  believe  that  any  political  animosity  would  in- 
duce any  one  to  peril  the  safety  of  the  town,  and  espe- 
cially to  aim  a  blow  at  her.  So  she  smiled  at  the 
resolutions  that  went  far  and  wide  throughout  the  land. 
The  letters  of  condolence  which  poured  in  upon  her 
husband,  all  assuming  that  he  was  a  martyr  to  a 
great  cause,  both  amused  and  annoyed  her.  Once  he 
had  laughed  at  her  hostility  to  slavery;  now  he  was 
almost  angry  that  she  would  not  account  it  the  sole 
cause  of  their  misfortunes.  They  had  yet  to  learn  the 
lesson  which  Time  so  often  teaches  to  those  who  dis- 
agree, that  both  were  right  and  both  were  wrong. 

It  was  because  of  this  conviction  that  Mrs.  Kort- 
right,  for  perhaps  the  first  time  in  her  life,  offered 
a  serious  objection  to  any  project  on  which  her  hus- 
band had  decided.  She  did  oppose  the  sending  of  her 
son  to  Kansas.  Five  good  men  and  true  had  readily 
been  found  among  those  thrown  out  of  employment, 
for  a  time  at  least,  by  the  fire,  to  go  with  the  other  five, 


388  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

as  Free  State  settlers,  to  Kansas.  Their  departure  had 
necessarily  been  dela3-ed  beyond  the  time  Avhicli  the  im- 
petuous sufterer  had  fixed  upon  at  first.  There  had  been 
a  subscription  started  to  rebuild  a  little  frontier  church  in 
which  Dawson  Fox  had  ministered,  and  which  had  been 
destroyed  by  a  gang  of  Missouri  raiders,  as  a  memorial 
to  his  memory.  During  this  period  of  delay  Mrs.  Kort- 
right  did  not  fail  to  urge  as  gently  as  she  could  upon 
her  husband's  attention  that  their  son  had  given  his 
word  to  Hargrove,  which  it  would  be  bad  faith  to  ignore, 
except  in  case  of  some  great  public  crisis. 

"And  is  it  not  a  great  crisis,"  the  sick  man  confi- 
dently asked,  "when  slavery,  not  content  with  having 
invaded  our  homes  to  search  for  the  fugitive,  and  com- 
pelled us  by  law  to  return  him  into  bondage,  comes 
also  and  applies  its  favorite  methods  for  repressing  free 
speech  here  in  the  midst  of  us  ?" 

"Admitting  this,"  his  wife  would  say,  "you  cannot 
deny  that  we  are  not  only  bound  to  regard  Mr.  Har- 
grove's wishes  ourselves,  but  that  Martin  is  under 
especial  obligation  to  do  so.  Can  you  claim  that  there 
is  any  more  need  for  him  to  forego  his  preparation 
for  life's  duties  and  engage  in  the  conflict  going  on  in 
Kansas  now  than  Avhen  you  gratefully  thanked  Captain 
Hargrove  for  preventing  his  departure  ?" 

To  this  view  no  answer  could  be  given,  but  it  is  pro- 
bable that  his  wife's  importunities  would  have  been  of 
little  avail  to  restrain  the  exasperated  father  and  hold 
back  the  son,  whose  martial  ardor  was  at  fever  heat, 
had  it  not  been  for  certain  items  of  intelligence  which 
arrived  while  they  waited  for  the  day  fixed  upon  for 
their  departure. 

The  first  of  these  was  a  letter  from  Hilda,  to  whom 
Martin  had  found  leisure,  even  amid  the  excitements 
of  the  time,  to  write  a  full  account  of  all  that  had  oc- 
curred, including  the  fact  that  his  father  had  determined 


ON  THE  DIVIDE.  889 

that  he  should  go  to  Kansas  with  the  others.  Upon 
this  topic  he  had  dilated  with  much  earnestness  and 
enthusiasm.  The  young  girl,  dwelling  in  the  quiet  of 
the  Blankshire  hills,  knowing  nothing  of  the  mental 
atmosphere  of  Skendoah,  save  from  his  letter,  and 
withal  influenced  not  a  little  by  the  selfishness  of  love, 
took  a  view  of  the  situation  which  effectually  dam- 
pened the  ardor  of  the  would-be  knight-errant  of  liberty, 
and  staggered  the  positiveness  of  the  father's  convic- 
tion.    She  wrote : 

"My  Dear  Martin  :  I  was  glad  to  get  your  long  letter, 
though  it  made  me  very  sad  indeed.  I  would  come  to  you 
at  once,  for  I  am  sure  you  need  me,  but  a  letter  which  I 
have  just  received  from  Papa — the  lirst  after  so  many 
mouths — says  that  he  will  follow  in  a  few  days,  and  will  take 
me  home  for  a  vacation  that  is  not  set  down  in  the  cata- 
logue. As  this  is  the  last  year,  and  the  principal  is  sure  of 
her  pay  anyhow,  she  does  not  care  so  very  much  about  ab- 
sences as  she  otherwise  would.  I  look  for  him  every  day, 
and  may  be  with  you  as  soon  as  my  letter.  I  may  even 
get  there  in  time  to  read  it  to  you.  That  would  be  nice, 
wouldn't  it  ?  Just  think  of  a  young  gentleman  getting  a 
letter  from  his  lady-love  by  word  of  mouth— her  mouth, 
too !  I  think  it  would  be  capital  sport,  only  you  would 
have  to  promise  very  solemnly  not  to— to— interrupt,  you 
know. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Martin,  you  must  forgive  me  for  seeming 
to  be  gay  M^hen  you  are  in  such  serious  trouble  at  Sken- 
doah. I  am  sure  I  am  sorry — very  sorry  for  jjoor  Mr. 
Fox,  whom  I  did  not  know  at  all,  you  know  (and  whom  I 
am  sure  I  should  not  have  liked  if  I  had  known),  and  for 
your  papa,  who  suffers  so  much,  and  your  dear  mamma, 
who  has  lost  her  beautiful  home.  Poor  dear  Aunt  Mattie 
(I  shall  never  learn  to  call  her  anything  else),  she  must 
feel  as  if  her  life  had  been  cut  right  in  twain  and  the  best 
part  of  it  thrown  away,  leaving  her  only  the  evening 
years  to  call  her  own," 


390  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

"And  that  is  just  the  way  I  do  feel,"  sobbed  Mrs. 
Kortright,  interrupting  the  reading  of  the  letter ;  "  but 
Avho  would  have  thought  she  would  have  understood  it  ? 
I  wish  she  were  here,  the  dear  child ;  I  do  indeed." 

"But  then  I  am  so  glad  that  you  are  safe,  your  father 
alive,  your  mother  well,  and  my  papa  coming  home,  that 
I  cannot  be  sad  a  bit  and  hardly  manage  to  be  serious.  I 
am  just  as  happy  as  a  bird,  and  wish  I  were  one  to  just  fly 
to  you  for  one  little  minute  and  then  back  here  before 
Papa  could  have  a  chance  to  come  and  find  me  gone.  That 
would  be  awful.  I  do  think  it  would  break  his  heart  if 
he  should  come  and  not  find  me  watching  for  him.  I 
know  I  should  never  get  over  crying  about  it.  I  am  sure 
you  need  me  there  very  much,  too.  What  in  the  world 
are  you  all  stopping  at  thjlt  little  hotel  for  ?  I  hope  you 
don't  mean  to  stay  there  while  dear  old  Sturmhold  stands 
vacant  and  just  aching  for  a  poiDulation,  What  difference 
does  it  make  that  it  is  ten  miles  away  ?  Your  father  ought 
to  get  as  far  from  business  as  he  can,  and  you  are  going  to 
Kansas.  So  you  say  at  least.  Now,  you  know  that  Papa 
would  not  allow  you  to  stay  there  an  hour,  nor  would  I  if 
I  could  have  my  way.  I  have  written  to  the  servants  at 
Sturmhold  to  put  everything  in  order  and  send  the  car- 
riage to  you  at  Skendoah.  You  did  not  tell  me  whether 
the  barn  and  horses  were  burned  or  not — which  was  very 
careless  of  you.  Now,  if  you  are  going  to  Kansas — 
which  I  do  not  at  all  believe — " 

Martin  smiled  and  Mr.  Kortright  frowned  at  this. 
— "the  very  first  thing  you  should  do  is  to  put  your  father 
and  mother  where  they  will  be  perfectly  comfortable  while 
you  are  away,  and  Sturmhold  is  just  the  place.  Besides, 
Papa  and  I  will  be  there  in  a  few  days,  and  you  know  we 
shall  all  want  to  be  together,  except  you,  who  will,  of 
course,  prefer  to  be — in  Kansas,  I  am  sure  your  father 
would  like  to  go  there,  because  he  will  want  me  to  nurse 
him.  He  knows  what  a  capital  nurse  I  am,  because  he  has 
tried  it.     I  remember  being  left  alone  with  him  when  he 


ON  THE  DIVIDE.  "BOl 

was  sick  before.  I  sui^pose  he  was  busy  thinking  of  what 
he  would  do  when  he  got  out  again,  for  he  answered  my 
questions  at  first  absently,  and  then  with  more  and  more 
of  irritation,  until  finally  your  mother  came  in  and  he  ex- 
claimed :  '  Good  Heaven,  Mattie,  can't  you  think  of  some- 
thing that  this  child  can  ask  a  few  questions  about?' 
I  don't  need  any  help  now.  So  if  he  will  come  to  Sturm- 
hold  I  will  ask  questions  enough  to  keep  his  mind  off  his 
business,  and  then  he  will  get  well,  only  just  taking  a 
rest  now  and  then  while  Papa  tells  his  adventures.  He  has 
been  aAvay  so  long  that  I  am  sure  they  will  be  many  and 
well  worth  listening  to.  However,  if  you  will  not  go  at  my 
invitation,  I  will  leave  Papa  to  settle  all  that  when  he  comes. 

"By  the  way,  Martin — you  will  excuse  me  for  saying  so, 
but  speaking  of  your  father's  business  brings  it  to  my 
mind — I  remember  hearing  Papa  say  that  the  work  Harri- 
son Kortright  did  every  day  was  enough  to  kill  two  or 
three  ordinary  men.  Even  such  a  little  dunce  as  I  am  can 
see  that  it  must  be  enormous.  Why,  even  my  little  busi- 
ness matters  almost  bring  on  a  collapse  when  I  undertake 
to  straighten  them  out.  Once  a  month  or  so  we  girls 
always  get  leave  to  go  into  the  town  shopping,  and  I  am 
sure  to  be  laid  up  for  a  day  or  two  afterwards.  Miss  Hun- 
niwell  says  it  is  caramels  and  the  like,  but  I  know  it  is  the 
cares  of  business.  Then,  too.  Papa  gave  me  a  bank-book 
and  a  check-book  before  he  went  away,  and  you  have  no 
idea  of  the  trouble  I  have  tryhig  to  find  out  how  much 
cash  I  have  in  the  bank.  I  know  there  must  be  a  good 
deal  though,  for  I  haven't  used  up  more  than  half  the 
checks  in  my  book  yet. 

"Now  Marty,  dear,  don't  laugh  at  me.  I  know  I  am 
nothing  but  a  silly  little  girl ;  but  it  does  seem  to  me  that 
instead  of  going  out  to  Kansas  'to  help  on  the  good  cause,' 
as  you  say,  you  would  help  on  a  great  deal  better  cause, 
and  the  one  you  mean  a  great  deal  faster,  too,  by  staying  at 
home  and  taking  that  great  business  off  from  your  poor 
father's  shoulders  jiist  as  fast  as   you  can.     You  know  I 


392  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

want  you  to  do  right,  and  I  would  not  have  you  shirk 
your  duty,  or  what  you  think  to  be  your  duty,  for  any- 
thing in  the  world.  When  you  first  thought  of  going  you 
know  I  was  half  sorry  that  Papa  discouraged  you  from 
doing  so.  Now,  it  seems  as  if  he  must  have  been  a  prophet 
and  have  foreseen  this  very  day.  I  have  just  read  over 
your  letter  Avhere  you  tell  me  what  he  told  you — that 
Kansas  was  at  best  only  an  outpost,  and  if  there  was  to 
be  a  great  conflict  between  freedom  and  slavery  it  would 
not  be  fought  out  by  little  squads  of  partisan  rangers 
fighting  and  plundering  on  the  prairie.  Cannot  you  re- 
call his  language  and  see  if  it  is  not  as  true  now  as 
then  ?  If  you  think  yovi  ought  to  go,  and  your  father  de- 
sires it,  of  course  you  must  pay  no  heed  to  what  I  say.  I 
am  only  a  weak-hearted  school-girl.  Besides  that  you 
know  I — I  am  in  love,  and  don't  want  you  to  go  away  just 
when  I  am  coming  home.  It  has  been  an  age  since  I  saw 
you,  and  nothing  less. 

"I  hate  to  speak  of  it,  Marty,  dear,  but — you  won't  be 
angry,  will  you  ?  Didn't  you — it  seems  as  if  you  wrote  that 
you  did — or  maybe  it  was  he — didn't  you  give  Papa  your 
word  of  honor  that  you  would  not  engage  in  this  Kansas 
melee,  or  trouble,  whatever  it  is?  You  know  he  is  a 
Southerner,  though  he  does  hate  slavery  so  awfully,  and 
is  very  punctilious  about  any  agreement  made  on  honor. 
What  shall  I  tell  him,  IMartin,  dear,  if  he  says  to  me 
'  Hilda,  your  betrothed  promised  me  on  his  honor  not  to 
do  this  thing,  and  yet  has  done  it,  and  done  it  in  my  ab- 
sence, too?'  You  must  tell  me  how  to  answer  him,  because 
my  father  even  must  not  impeach  in  my  hearing  the  honor 
of  my  husband  that  is  to  be.  I  will  uphold  his  honor  as 
I  would  have  him  defend  mine — even  with  life  itself. 

"Good-by,  my  dearly  beloved.  Give  my  love  and  duty  to 
your  parents,  and  implore  them  to  grant  my  requests  so 
far  as  they  may  count  it  right  to  do  so,  and  no  farther. 
May  Heaven  bless  and  guide  you  is  the  constant  prayer  of 
your  Hilda. 


ON  THE  DIVIDE.  393 

"  P.  S.— Do  not  think  I  pity  the  slave  or  hate  slavery  any 
less  than  I  always  have  done ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that — 
that  it  is  hard  to  tell  just  what  is  being  done  or  ought  to 
be  done  in  Kansas.  They  tell  horrible  stories  about  '  Old 
Brown,'  as  he  is  called.  I  don't  believe  they  can  be 
true;  but  it  seems  to  me  very  hard  to  tell  how  many 
patriots  there  are  and  how  many  freebooters,  even  among 
the  'Free  State  men.'  Some  of  those  we  call  the  best 
men  in  Kansas  say  that  John  Brown  is  hardly  any  better 
than  the  worst.  They  say  that  he  burns  and  pillages  and 
even  kills  unarmed  people  in  the  night-time.  I  do  not  ex- 
pect that  men  placed  as  they  are — fighting  against  the  law 
for  wdiat  they  believe  to  be  right— can  always  be  blame- 
less ;  but  it  would  hurt  me  terribly,  Martin— I  think,  indeed, 
it  would  kill  me — if  there  should  be  any  doubt  about  the 
righteousness  and  honorableness  of  any  act  that  might  be 
attributed  to  you  either  directly  or  indirectly.  H." 

Harrison  Kortrigbt  was  lying  on  a  couch  in  the  best 
room  of  the  tidy  little  hotel  that  had  succeeded  the 
Drovers'  "Wayside  Home  which  once  stood  at  the  Sken- 
doah  cross-roads.  Mrs.  Kortright  sat  at  the  head  of  the 
couch,  and  Martin  sat  near  the  fireplace  opposite  the 
foot.  He  still  held  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and  his  flushed 
face  showed  that  its  contents  had  touched  him  deeply. 
The  early  winter  evening  had  come  suddenly  on,  and  the 
wood-fire  lighted  up  the  group. 

"Well,  father,"  said  Mrs.  Kortright  anxiously,  "what 
do  you  think  of  "what  Hilda  Avrites  ?" 

Mr.  Kortright  turned  his  eyes  from  the  fire,  on  which 
they  had  rested,  to  his  son's  face. 

"  She  is  a  brave  girl,"  he  said. 

"  And  a  good  one,"  added  his  wife. 

Martin's  face  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"A  brave  girl  and  a  good  gii-1,"  repeated  the  father 
slowly,  "and  has  a  way  of  thinking  for  herself  that 
isn't  altogether  common.     I  'm  glad  of  it,  too,  and  glad 


394  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

she  is  going  to  be  Martin's  wife.  She  '11  make  a  daugh- 
ter you  '11  always  be  proud  of,  Mattie." 

Tears  sprang  to  the  son's  eyes,  and  the  mother  leaned 
over  and  kissed  the  pale  brow  of  her  husband.  There 
was  a  suppressed  moan  as  he  shifted  his  position  a  trifle, 
and  continued,  not  noticing  the  caress : 

"  She  shows  the  right  spirit.  Any  one  can  see  that 
she  is  just  as  honest  as  the  day.  Marriage  won't  make 
a  particle  of  difierence  with  her.  She  has  begun  to  be  a 
wife  already,  and  no  more  thinks  of  separating  her  in- 
terest or  her  life  from  Martin's  than  if  they  had  lived 
together  for  ten  years." 

"Well,  so  they  have,  pretty  nearly,"  said  Mrs.  Kort- 
right,  smiling. 

"That  is  so,"  responded  he,  "and  we  have  almost 
forgotten  that  they  were  growing  up.  I  am  afraid  I  was 
a  little  hasty  in  urging  Martin  to  go,  but  it 's  just  as 
well.  I  've  been  so  given  to  having  my  own  way  that 
it 's  time  I  learned  that  Martin  is  not  a  boy  any  longer, 
but  a  man,  who  must  act  for  himself.  We  are  right 
betwixt  two  generations — on  the  divide,  as  you  may 
say.  We  haven't  finished  our  work  exactly,  and  he 
hasn't  begun  his.  We  must  go  on  in  the  old  way, 
but  he  must  take  his  own  way  and  cut  out  the  chan- 
nel in  which  his  life  must  flow.  As  it  was  our  duty 
to  keep  him  with  us  up  to  this  point,  so  it  is  now 
our  duty  to  let  him  go.  You  must  decide  this  matter 
for  yourself,  my  son,"  he  added,  reaching  forth  his 
hand,  "and  write  Hilda  what  you  will  do.  Let  mo 
know  your  decision  in  the  morning." 

The  son  shook  his  father's  hand,  and  was  about  to 
withdraw  from  the  room,  when  the  landlord  rapped  at  the 
door,  and  said  that  Mr.  Clarkson  wished  to  know  if  Mr. 
Kortright  was  able  to  see  him  on  a  matter  of  importance. 

"  Of  course — of  course  ;  let  him  come  in,"  said  Kort- 
right, resuming  at  ouce  his  usual  alert  and  eager  manner, 


ON  THE  DIVIDE.  395 

"  I  must  beg  pardon  for  troubling  you  at  such  an  un- 
seemly hour,"  said  Clarkson,  entering  at  once,  "but — " 

"]S^o  excuses,"  said  Kortright,  with  brusque  courtesy. 
"  Jared  Clarkson  can  never  come  where  Harrison  Kort- 
right is,  at  a  wrong  time." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Clarkson,  taking  his  hand  with  a  ten- 
der heartiness  that  testified  better  than  words  could 
have  done  his  thoughtful  remembrance  of  his  friend's 
affliction.  "I  would  not  have  come  at  this  time,  but 
the  business  that  brings  nie  will  not  admit  delay." 

"Something  about  our  Kansas  boys,  I  suppose,"  said 
Kortright. 

"No;  it  aftects  especially  you  and  me,"  was  the 
reply. 

"Is  it  anything  private?"  asked  Mrs.  Kortright, 
rising  as  if  to  retire. 

"]S^o,  no,"  said  Clarkson  hastily.  "Pray  be  seated, 
ma'am.  It  afiects  us  all.  I  am  only  doubtful  as  to 
whether  I  ought  to  tell  you,  in  your  present  condition, 
Kortright." 

"It  is  bad  news,  then." 

"Very  sad  news,  indeed." 

"Brown?  Has  he —  ?"  asked  Kortright,  with  a  look 
of  quick  intelligence. 

"It  has  nothing  to  do  with  Brown,"  said  Clarkson, 
smiling  in  spite  of  his  grave  mission.  "  I  have  not  heard 
from  him  in  a  long  time.  But  I  received  a  telegram  to- 
day which — well,  read  it  for  yourself" 

He  drew  a  dispatch  from  his  pocket  and  handed  it 
to  Kortright  as  he  spoke. 

"Let  me  light  the  lamp,"  said  Mrs.  Kortright,  rising 
as  she  spoke,  and  taking  from  the  mantel  a  glass  lamp 
filled  with  camphene,  which  she  placed  upon  the  table, 
and,  removing  the  extinguishers  from  the  wicks,  lighted 
with  a  match.  Meantime  Kortright  had  held  the  tele- 
gram up  to  the  firelight  and  read  * 


396  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

"  Jared  Clarkson,  Esq.,  Rockboro  : 

"Deliver  testament.  Executor  must  act  at  once.  Tes- 
tator dead.  M.  B." 

It  bore  date  from  a  Southern  city. 

"Well,"  said  he,  with  a  puzzled  look,  "what  does 
it  meau  ?" 

"  It  means  that  I  must  deliver  this  into  your  hands," 
said  Clarkson,  handing  him  a  folded  document. 

"  And  this —  ?"  asked  Kortright,  beginning  to  open 
it  confusedly. 

"  That  is  the  will  of  Merwyn  Hargrove,  in  which  you 
are  named  executor,"  said  Clarkson  impressively. 

"And  Captain  Hargrove?"  queried  the  sick  man 
anxiously. 

"  Is  dead  !"  responded  Clarkson. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

POSSESSIO  PEDIS. 

Death  is  a  fact  that  never  becomes  common.  No 
period  of  hourly  apprehension  makes  us  ready  for 
the  announcement.  Come  when  it  will,  it  brings  a 
tremor  of  surprise.  Like  the  crash  of  thunder  near  at 
hand,  or  the  rumble  of  the  earthquake,  one  is  never 
quite  prepared  to  hear  it.  It  may  not  alarm  nor  even 
startle,  but  it  always  hushes.  There  are,  however, 
instances  in  which  it  is  heard  with  a  peculiar  thrill. 
We  expect  the  old  to  die  and  the  young  to  live  as  a 
universal  rule.  The  demise  of  those  who  have  long 
been  afflicted  with  disease  or  are  of  peculiarly  frail  and 
weakly  habit  is,  of  course,  regarded  as  more  probable 
and  therefore  is  less  startling  than  that  of  the  active 
and  strong.  The  temperament  of  the  decedent,  too,  is 
a  distinct  element  in  the  effect  that  death  produces. 
There  are  men  who  are  neither  young  nor  vigorous, 
but  whom  we  never  associate  with  the  idea  of  death 
until  the  fact  stares  us  in  the  face,  and  we  wonder  at 
it.  We  are  never  able  to  realize  that  they  are  not  as 
they  always  have  been.  We  are  forever  thinking  of 
them  as  alive,  and  recalling  with  a  start  our  error. 
Such  a  man  was  Merwyn  Hargrove.  He  was  not  es- 
pecially robust,  but  his  life  for  years  had  been  one 
unvarying  round  of  re-duplicated  days.  What  yester- 
day had  been  with  him,  to-morrow  was  sure  to  be  again. 
His  personality  was  self-sustaining.  He  neither  leaned 
upon  his  neighbors  nor  held  them  up.  He  neither  talked 
of  himself  nor  listened  when  another  broached  the  sub- 
ject. Griefs  and  pleasures  were  alike  to  him  so  far  as 
397 


398  ilOT  PLOWSHARES. 

others  were  concerned.  He  had  become  a  fixture,  as  it 
were,  in  the  eyes  of  all  Avho  knew  him.  He  did  not 
come  very  close  to  their  lives,  but  yet  he  did  not  drop 
out  of  them,  and  there  was  probably  no  one  in  that 
whole  region  whose  life  seemed  so  much  a  matter  of 
course  as  that  of  Merwyn  Hargrove.  There  was  an 
amazement,  therefore,  that  for  a  time  forbade  any 
speech  on  the  part  of  the  little  group  who  heard  Mr. 
Clarkson's  announcement.  Kortright  looked  steadily  at 
the  speaker.  His  wife,  after  the  first  start,  watched 
her  husband  carefully,  as  if  to  note  the  effect  of  this 
unexpected  news  upon  him.  Martin  stood  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed  transfixed  with  horror.  Mr.  Kortright  at 
length  spoke,  holding  up  the  telegram  as  he  did  so. 

"  You  think  there  is  no  mistake  ?" 

"  I  am  very  sure  there  is  none." 

"  This  '  M.  B.'— who  is  he  ?*' 

"  Matthew  Bartlemy,  Captain  Hargrove's  attorney  in 
the  South." 

"  You  have  no  idea  how  or  when —  ?" 

"  You  know  all  that  I  do." 

"You  say  I  am  the  executor  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  What  do  you  suppose  this  man  wishes  me  to  do  ?" 

"I  am  aware  that  Captain  Hargrove  anticipated  a 
struggle  in  regard  to  his  property,  and  it  is  probable 
that  the  object  of  this  haste  is  to  have  you  enter  into 
possession  in  order  that  you  may  the  better  hold  for  his 
devisees," 

"I  will  do  it,"  said  the  sick  man,  with  his  accus- 
tomed decisiveness.  "What  is  the  first  thing  to  be 
done  ?" 

"We  will  offer  the  will  for  probate  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible," said  Clarkson;  "  but  it  is  better  that  you  should 
take  possession  immediately.  Bartlemy  evidently  fears 
a  hostile  entry." 


P0SSE8HI0  PEDIS.  399 

"Martin  shall  go  to  Sturmliold  to-night,  and  I  will 
follow  to-morrow.     Will  that  do  ?" 

"That  is  the  very  best  that  can  be  done,"  answered 
Clarkson.  "Captain  Hargrove  certainly  made  no  mis- 
take in  choosing  you  for  his  executor,"  he  added  as  he 
nodded  approval. 

"Merwyn  Hargrove  has  a  right  to  command  me  and 
mine,  whether  alive  or  dead,"  said  Kortright  with  emo- 
tion.    " Martin,"  he  added,  "you  must  make  no  delay." 

"But,  father,"  said  Martin  hesitantly,  "do  you  re- 
member— there  is  Hilda  —  ought  we  not  to  inform  her 
of  this  ?" 

"  True  ;  I  had  forgotten,"  said  Kortright  thoughtfully. 

Clarkson  looked  quickly  from  one  to  the  other. 

"Hilda,"  said  Mrs.  Kortright,  noticing  this  look  of 
inquiry,  "Captain  Hai^grove's  daughter,  is  to  be  Mar- 
tin's wife." 

"  I  ought  to  go  for  her  at  once,"  said  Martin. 

"Better  wait  till  we  are  sure,"  said  Kortright  cau- 
tiously. 

"You  may  serve  her  even  better  by  going  to  Sturm- 
hold,"  added  Clarkson  with  sympathetic  assurance. 

Martin  still  hesitated. 

"Do  not  seek  to  be  the  bearer  of  evil  tidings,  my 
son,"  said  his  mother.  "Let  Hilda  be  happy  as  long 
as  she  may." 

"I  will  do  as  you  wish,"  said  Martin,  with  evident 
reluctance,  "though  I  think  she  ought  to  know  of  this 
and  come  here  at  once." 

How  true  is  love's  prescience  ! 

An  hour  later  Martin  was  on  his  way  to  Sturmhold, 
full  of  sad  forebodings. 


CHAPTEE  XXXIII. 

A  NINETEENTH   CENTURY  BUCCANEER. 

The  next  da}^  the  air  was  full  of  rumors.  Captain 
Hargrove  was  dead  and  'Squire  Kortright  was  his  ex- 
ecutor. That  everybody  in  Skeiidoah  knew.  The  man- 
ner of  Hargrove's  death  was  variously  guessed.  It  was 
believed  that  in  some  way  or  other  slavery  was  an- 
swerable for  this,  as  well  as  the  burning  of  the  mills. 
There  were  especially  stvange  reports  in  regard  to 
Sturmhold — its  young  mistress,  and  poor  Madame  Eigh- 
mie,  as  the  crazy  woman  was  called  in  the  neighborhood. 
There  was  talk  of  kidnappers  and  fire-eaters  and  violence. 

"They'd  better  not  be  tryin'  any  of  them  tricks," 
said  the  old  man  Shields.  "  'Tain't  so  long  since  the 
Anti-Rent  war  here,  that  the  people  of  these  parts  have 
forgot  to  take  care  of  themselves,  and  their  neighbors, 
too.  The  fact  on  't  is  there  's  been  just  about  as  much 
man-stealing  and  land-stealing  done  in  this  region  as 
we  care  about  sitting  still  and  looking  on  at.  I  'm  an 
old  man,  but  if  any  nigger-hunter  comes  into  this  coun- 
try a-tracking  after  a  runaway  or  a  stayaway,  I'm 
ready  to  be  one  of  a  crowd  that  '11  give  him  all  the 
pond-water  he  '11  care  about  takin'  aboard  at  a  time." 

He  was  not  alone  in  these  sentiments.  A  company 
of  citizens  waited  on  Mr.  Kortright  as  he  was  about 
to  enter  his  carriage  to  be  driven  to  Sturmhold,  and  of- 
fered to  watch  the  premises  night  after  night,  in  turn, 
as  long  as  he  might  think  a  guard  necessary.  It  was 
even  reported  that  suspicious  movements  had  been  ob- 
served  about   the   place  during  the  previous  night  by 


A  NIXETEENTII  CENTURY  BUCCANEER.      401 

Martin.  That  young  man  did  not  return,  as  his  parents 
had  expected,  but  sent  a  short  note  of  excuse  by  one  of 
the  servants.  This  fact  troubled  Harrison  Kortright, 
and  hastened  his  departure.  He  declined,  however,  the 
good  offices  of  his  neighbors,  and  only  arranged  for  the 
man  who  had  been  watchman  at  the  mill  to  go  with  him 
to  Sturmhold  and  remain  for  a  short  time. 

One  of  the  New  York  papers  received  that  day  con- 
tained the  following  : 

"a  doubtful  rumor. 

"There  is  a  report  of  a  wholesale  kidnapping  affair  upon 
the  coast  of  Carolina,  in  which  a  well-known  citizen  of 
one  of  our  interior  counties  is  said  to  have  lost  his  life. 
Great  excitement  is  reported  in  that  region,  and  the  afi'air 
is  denounced  as  an  'Abolition  outrage'  of  unprecedented 
magnitude.  Tlie  tendency  to  exaggeration  on  the  part  of 
the  'chivalry'  in  regard  to  anything  affecting  in  the  re- 
motest degree  tlie  'peculiar  institution,'  leads  us  to  anti- 
cipate that  this  will  prove  to  be  a  great  stir  over  a  very 
small  matter.  It  may  even  prove  to  be  a  flurry  started  to 
cover  up  one  of  those  knife  and  pistol  affairs  to  which 
Southern  hospitality  so  often  appeals  when  the  Northern 
creditor  goes  there  to  enforce  his  demand.  At  all  events 
we  shall  refrain  from  further  comment  until  we  obtain 
fuller  information. ' ' 

Another  referred  to  it  under  the  heading 
"a  queer  complication. 

"The  report  comes  from  Washington  that  a  special 
messenger  from  the  governor  of  one  of  the  Southern  States 
arrived  in  that  city  yesterday,  and  laid  before  the  President 
a  request  that  he  would  dispatch  at  once  a  swift-sailing 
man-of-war  to  intercept  a  schooner  that  cleared  from  this 
port,  about  ten  days  ago,  for  Kingston  and  San  Domingo 
via  Newbern,  Wilmington  and  Charleston.  It  seems  that 
instead  of  touching  at  either  of  these  ports,  or  proceeding 
on  her  voyage,  the  schooner  hove  to,  somewhere  oft'  Plat- 


403  Hot  rLOW^llALlKS. 

teras,  and  took  on  board  some  forty  or  fifty  slaves  which 
were  brought  outside  the  bar  and  transferred  to  the 
schooner  by  a  fast-sailing  yacht  which  is  well  known  in 
this  harbor  and  up  and  down  the  Hudson.  It  is  supposed 
that  the  intention  is  to  take  the  slaves  to  Hayti,  or,  per- 
haps, to  one  of  the  British  West  Indies,  for  the  purpose  of 
freeing  them.  The  President  referred  the  matter  to  the 
Attorney-General,  and  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy  was  or- 
dered to  have  a  vessel  in  readiness  should  it  be  decided  to 
attempt  the  pursuit.  It  is  not  probable  that  anything  will 
be  done,  as  it  is  not  thought  that  the  government  has  any 
power  to  act  in  the  premises. 

"The  Sea  Foam  is  reported  to  have  passed  up  the  river 
last  night,  but  this  is  not  credited.  It  is  rumored  that  she 
has  been  engaged  in  such  kidnapping  excursions  along  the 
rivers  and  sounds  of  that  region  before.  Her  owner  is  said 
to  have  been  outlawed  and  a  price  set  upon  his  head  for 
seducing  slaves  to  run  away,  more  than  a  year  ago.  It  is 
generally  believed  that  the  whole  story  is  a  canard,  and 
intended  as  a  set-off  to  the  absurd  stories  of  Southern  out- 
rage in  Kansas." 

That  evening  Jared  Clarkson  drove  over  to  Sturmhold. 
Harrison  Kortright  was  on  a  couch  in  the  library.  His 
wife  was  with  him  when  Clarkson  was  admitted.  Kort- 
right gave  him  a  swift  glance  as  they  shook  hands,  and 
said  in  a  calm,  steady  tone  : 

"It  is  true,  then  ?" 

"Too  true,"" 

"  You  have  learned  the  particulars  ?" 

"  I  have  a  letter  from  Mr.  Bartlemy,"  said  Clarkson, 
taking  it  from  his  pocket. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  Kortright.  "  I  want  Martin 
to  hear  it.  He  Mill  have  to  act  for  me  in  this  matter, 
and  I  want  he  should  know  it  all.  I  can  only  lie  here 
and  plan.     He  must  do  the  work." 

Mrs.  Kortright  withdrew  while  he  was  speaking  and 


A  NiNETEKNTit  CmtURY  BUCU'ANEEll.      m 

Boon  returned  with  their  son.  Martin  had  a  troul)Ied, 
anxious  look  as  he  shook  hands  with  Clarkson  and  sat 
down  beside  his  father's  couch.  Mr.  Clarkson,  with  the 
delicate  sense  of  perception  which  always  characterizes 
men  of  his  temperament,  recognized  at  once  the  de- 
velopment which  a  single  night  of  suffering  had  wrought 
in  the  young  man's  nature.  His  tone  revealed  respect 
and  consideration  as  he  said  : 

"I  have  a  letter  from  Mr.   Bartlemy  which  I  was 
about  to  read." 
Martin  bowed  and  Clarkson  continued  : 
"It  is  written  from  Richmond,  Virginia." 

"My  Deak  Sir  :  I  have  just  reached  this  point,  having 
come  here  post-haste  in  order  that  I  might  communicate 
with  you  without  awakening  suspicion.  I  learned  of  the 
death  of  your  friend  and  my  client,  Captain  Hargrove, 
just  before  leaving  home.  He  was  killed  two  days  ago 
in  an  attempt  to  remove  the  slaves  of  his  late  brother, 
George  Eighmie,  from  Mallowbanks,  the  plantation  for- 
merly belonging  to  the  said  Eighmie.  You  will  probably 
learn  the  particulars  as  soon  as  I,  through  the  public  press. 
I  am  so  well  informed  as  to  the  purposes  of  the  heirs  of 
Eighmie  — who  may  also  prove  to  be  Hargrove's  heirs, 
though  they  are  only  of  the  half  blood— that  I  think  we 
should  take  immediate  measures  to  prevent  their  stealing 
a  march  on  us  by  taking  possession  of  the  premises  at 
Sturmhold.  If  you  carry  out  my  instructions  as  given  by 
telegraph,  Mr.  I^ortright  will  be  on  the  ground  before  you 
get  this,  and  I  judge  him  to  be  a  man  not  easily  fright- 
ened or  driven." 

A  smile  came  over  Clarkson's  face  as  he  read  the  old 
lawyer's  estimate  of  the  man  before  him.  Kortright's 
pale  face  flushed  a  little  as  he  said  : 

"  He  did  not  know  his  letter  would  find  me  as  I  am." 
"I  don't  think  he  would  have  changed  his  opinion  if 
he  had,"  said  Clarkson.    'Then  he  read  on : 


404  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

"Nevertheless  —  and  tins  I  want  you  to  impress  upon 
him  seriously — he  must  keep  a  sharp  watch.  Our  South- 
ern people  have  not  in  all  respects  the  same  regard  for  the 
mere  forms  of  law  as  you  of  the  North,  and  Gilman  has 
a  long  head.  In  the  fight  they  intend  to  make,  possession 
of  the  realty  in  your  state  would  be  of  the  utmost  import- 
ance. So  too  is  the  discovery  and  identification  of  Lida's 
children.  I  have  just  learned  that  the  boy  Hugh  ran  away 
from  his  master,  who  lives  near  Harj^er's  Ferry  in  this 
state,  some  three  or  four  years  ago.  He  had  a  peculiar 
livid  scar  that  looks  like  a  cut,  extending  from  the  nose 
almost  back  to  the  ear  on  the  right  side  of  his  face." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Clarkson,'''  exclaimed  Mrs.  Kortright,  "do 
you  remember  the  young  fugitive  that  was  rescued  from 
the  jail?" 

"Sure  enough,"  said  Clarkson  with  a  start.  "The 
description  fits  him  exactly." 

"And  Lida — "  said  Mrs.  Kortright.  "You  remem- 
ber how  she  ran  after  the  carriage,  calling  out,  '  My 
baby  !  my  boy!'  " 

"And  we  thought  her  crazed,"  said  Clarkson  bitterly, 
as  he  rose  and  walked  back  and  forth  across  the  room. 
"Oh,  vile  and  terrible  institution,  what  evil  hast  thou 
not  to  answer  for — a  lost  child,  a  crazed  mother !  How 
long,  O  Lord,  how  long  ?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  The  veins  stood  out  on 
Clarkson's  brow,  and  his  hand  was  clenched  with  the 
excitement  of  his  thought.  His  eyes  burned  so  fiercely, 
when  they  flashed  upon  the  auditors  without  seeing  them, 
that  it  seemed  as  if  there  might  be  danger  of  his  own 
mind  losing  its  proper  balance. 

After  a  time,  Kortright  said  quietly : 

"Well,  what  more  has  Mr.  Bartlemy  to  say?" 

Clarkson  at  once  resumed  his  reading : 

"The  girl  I  think  we  shall  not  find  it  hard  ito  discover. 
By  the  way,  if  Unthank,  Hargrove's  body   servant,  turns 


A  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  BUCCANEER.      405 

up  ill  that  region,  by  all  means  keep  him  in  concealment, 
but  do  not  lose  track  of  him.  Even  if  we  are  unable  to 
use  him  as  a  witness,  his  information  will  be  indispensable 
to  us.  He  is  the  only  one  living  who  really  knows  any- 
thing about  Hargrove's  life  for  the  last  twenty  years.  But 
don't  let  him  be  seen  about  there  under  any  circum- 
stances— at  least  until  after  you  hear  from  me  again.  By 
the  way,  I  learned  while  hunting  for  the  boy  Hugh  that 
the  man  who  owned  him  has  the  only  one  of  Unthank's 
children  whom  he  has  not  managed  to  run  oflf.  This  may 
help  you  to  keep  him  in  sight  if  you  let  him  know  it." 

"My  God!"  exclaimed  Clarkson.  "How  heartless 
slavery  makes  the  best  of  men  !"  Then  he  resumed  his 
reading : 

"I  am  going  direct  to  Mallowbanks  to-day,  and  will 
attend  to  the  burial  of  our  friend  and  whatever  else  needs 
to  be  done  there.  Do  not  relax  your  vigilance,  and  tell 
Kortright  he  must  not  leave  the  plantation  for  an  hour 
until  the  danger  is  past.  It  would  be  better  if  he  did  not 
leave  the  house.  Those  who  are  against  us  are  very  deter- 
mined men.  We  will  teach  them,  however,  that  they  can't 
fool  with  a  client  of  Matthew  Bartlemy  or  I  'm  mistaken. 
I  've  got  my  heart  set  on  straightening  out  this  tangle,  and 
I  'm  going  to  do  it,  if  I  live  long  enough,  even  if  I  have  to 
give  up  all  the  rest  of  my  practice.  Bob  Gilman  shall  not 
have  a  chance  to  brag  that  he  has  got  around  the  old  man, 
if  there  's  any  way  to  circumvent  him.  I  leave  in  an  hour. 
"Yours  hastily, 

"Matthew  Bartlemy." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  when  Kortright  re- 
marked : 

"Is  that  all?" 

"No,"  answered  Clarkson;  "I  have  a  copy  of  the 
Glayhurn  Register.  I  only  glanced  over  it  hastily  on  my 
way  here.  It  contains  a  full  account  of  the  killing  of 
Captain  Hargrove.  Shall  I  read  it  ?"  he  asked,  glancing 
at  Mrs,  Kortright. 


406  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

"Of  course,"  answered  Kortright  for  himself.  "We 
must  know  it  ail  some  time,  and  the  sooner  the  better." 

Clarkson  glanced  down  the  column  and  said  : 

"  There  is  no  need  to  read  the  head-lines.  It  was 
evidently  a  godsend  to  the  editor,  and  he  makes  the 
most  of  it.  It  is  a  horrible  tale  as  he  tells  it.  This  is 
what  he  says : 

"a  startling  occurrekce. 

"We  stop  the  press  to  insert  a  hurried  and  imperfect 
account  of  the  most  infamous  abolition  outrage  ever  per- 
petrated on  the  soil  of  a  Southern  state.  The  people  of 
Clayburn  county  have  long  been  aware  that  a  renegade 
born  upon  her  soil,  but  for  many  years  a  resident  of  a 
Northern  state,  had  become  one  of  the  most  dangerous 
and  pestiferous  of  that  gang  of  nigger-stenling  fanatics 
who  seem  to  have  no  purpose  in  life  except  to  disturb  the 
peace  and  harmony  of  Southern  society.  This  man,  him- 
self born  a  slaveholder,  and  of  a  family  noted  for  cruelty 
and  harshness  to  their  slaves,  became  by  accident  the  ex- 
ecutor of  an  eccentric  half-brother,  whose  will  has  for 
many  years  been  a  subject  of  litigation  in  the  courts  of 
the  state.  Almost  a  generation  of  lawyers  have  passed 
away  since  Eighmie  vs.  Hargrove  was  first  entered  upon 
the  docket.  Several  minor  suits  have  grown  out  of  it,  all 
of  which  would  probably  have  been  dismissed  for  want  of 
prosecution,  since  the  heirs  of  George  Eighmie  were  also 
the  natural  heirs  of  Merwyn  Hargrove,  had  they  not 
learned  that  it  was  the  intention  of  the  latter  not  only  to 
divert  the  property  entirely  from  his  family  and  bestow  it 
upon  the  base-born  children  of  a  mulatto  woman,  with 
whom  his  testator  sustained  illicit  relations,  but  also  to 
deprive  them  of  a  chance  of  recovering  it  at  his  death  by 
freeing  and  removing  the  slaves.  Already  the  plantatiou 
of  Mallowbanks  had  suffered  severely  in  its  productive 
capacity  by  the  loss  of  about  one-fourth  of  the  requisite 
working  force,  which  Hargrove  had  freed  and  colonized 
at  the  North.     Although  he  is  reported  to  be  fi  man  of 


A  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  BUCCANEER.      407 

large  means,  it  was  evident  to  every  one  that  no  estate 
could  stand  such  wholesale  depletion  as  he  contemplated, 
and  yet  be  sufficient  to  reimburse  the  heirs  for  losses 
sustained  through  his  misfeasance.  Under  these  circum- 
stances an  injunction  was  obtained'  to  prevent  his  remov- 
ing the  slaves  during  the  pendency  of  the  litigation.  This 
was  some  two  or  three  years  ago,  and  he  has  shown  no  in- 
clination to  carry  out  his  original  purpose  until  a  few 
months  ago  circumstances  that  came  to  the  knowledge  of 
the  claimants  put  them  on  their  guard,  and  they  arranged 
to  have  Mr.  Alfred  Iddings,  a  poor  but  respectable  man, 
who  lives  on  an  adjoining  plantation,  keep  watch  of  mat- 
ters at  Mallowbanks,  and  let  them  know  of  any  attempt 
to  remove  the  slaves,  or,  in  fact,  of  the  coming  of  Har- 
grove. It  should  be  stated  that  about  two  years  ago  Har- 
grove was  indicted  for  kidnapping  and  seducing  slaves  to 
run  away  from  their  masters  ;  and,  in  accordance  with  the 
law,  as  he  constantly  evaded  arrest,  coming  and  going  in 
the  night  time,  on  his  swift-sailing  yacht,  the  Sea  Foam.,  he 
was  formally  outlawed  by  the  proper  authority.  The  claim- 
ants were  determined  to  assert  their  rights  at  all  hazards, 
and  were  fully  sustained  by  the  popular  sentiment  of  the 
vicinage,  which  was  kept  in  a  constant  state  of  alarm  by 
this  descendant  of  old  Hargrove  of  Hargrove's  Quarter, 
who  seemed  to  have  inherited  all  the  thieving  propensities 
of  his  buccaneer  ancestor. 

"Nothing  came  of  these  precautions,  however,  until  this 
morning  about  three  o'clock,  when  Mr.  Iddings,  being 
awakened  by  the  barking  of  his  dogs,  became  aware  of 
some  unusual  stir  about  the  negro  quarter  at  Mallow- 
banks.  The  morning  being  foggy,  he  could  not  at  iirst 
make  out  what  it  was,  but  running  along  the  path  that 
skirts  the  shore  he  soon  came  to  the  inlet,  where  he 
found  the  Sea  Foam,  with  her  sails  furled  and  an  armed 
desperado  sitting  in  the  stem,  evidently  awaiting  the 
arrival  of  some  one  on  shore.  The  moon  was  at  the 
full,  and  Iddings  was  able  to  see  everything  upon  the  deck 


408  HOT  PL  O  WSIIARES. 

as  plain  as  if  it  had  beeu  midday.  For  a  little  while  he 
was  thoroughly  astonished.  Then  he  thought  that  if  the 
craft  was  thei'e  the  master  of  it  could  not  be  far  off. 
Stealing  back  along  the  path,  he  ran  quickly  through  the 
corn-fields  to  the  house  of  ]\Iajor  Sherwood  Eighmie,  one  of 
the  claimants.  As  soon  as  Iddings  communicated  what 
he  had  seen  to  Major  Eighmie,  that  gentleman  seized  his 
conch  and  blew  a  blast  that  awakened  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood. The  coming  of  the  yacht  had  been  foreseen,  and 
upon  Major  Eighmie  giving  the  signal  agreed  on,  all  the 
gentlemen  of  the  neighborhood  seized  their  arms  and 
started  for  the  landing.  About  this  time  a  fire  was  seen 
in  the  direction  of  Mallowbanks,  and  the  general  belief 
was  that  the  crowd  of  ruffians,  with  Hargrove  at  their 
head,  had  pillaged  and  fired  the  Eighmie  homestead. 
Shots  were  lieard  in  the  direction  of  the  landing,  and  aho 
of  the  house.  Owing  to  the  fog,  and  the  uncertainty  as 
to  the  number  of  the  marauders,  it  was  necessary  to  ad- 
vance upon  them  with  caution.  It  was,  therefore,  some 
considerable  time  before  the  band  of  armed  neighbors 
reached  the  fire,  which  they  found  to  be  not  at  the  man- 
sion, but  at  the  negro  quarters,  which  had  been  deserted 
and  set  on  fire.  When  this  fact  was  ascertained,  the 
whole  infamous  plan  burst  on  the  minds  of  the  pursuers. 
It  was  a  great  kidnapping  scheme  !  The  negroes  had 
been  partly  corrupted  and  i^artly  coei'ced  into  flight.  At 
once  a  cry  was  raised,  '  To  the  landing  !  To  the  landing  !' 
Major  Eighmie  called  upon  them  to  follow  him,  and  the 
enraged  neighbors  responded  promptly  to  his  appeal.  They 
started  down  the  path  to  the  landing,  but  had  not  ad- 
vanced more  than  a  hundred  yards  when  a  perfect  volley 
was  fired  at  them  out  of  a  clump  of  wood  that  intervened 
between  them  and  the  inlet.  The  bullets  that  whistled 
over  them  showed  that  Hargrove  had  a  strong  and  Avell- 
armed  party  to  aid  him  in  his  nefarious  enterprise.  The 
citizens  then  advanced  carefully,  firing  every  time  they 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  enemy.     At  length  they  reached 


A  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  BUCCANEER.      409 

the  brow  of  the  hill  above  the  landing  just  as  the  fog 
lifted  and  a  sharp  breeze  sprang  up  from  the  west.  There 
was  the  yacht,  with  every  stitch  of  canvas  set,  loaded  to 
the  gunwale  with  frightened  negroes,  who  were  crying 
piteously  at  being  driven  away  from  their  home  and 
friends.  The  wind  filled  the  sails  and  straightened  the 
hawser,  that  was  fastened  to  a  tree  on  the  bank.  Half  way 
down  the  slope  was  Unthank,  the  desperate  negro  villain, 
who  has  served  Hargrove  as  his  body-servant  for  twenty 
years,  and  who  has  been  his  confederate  and  agent  in  all 
his  recent  villanies,  supporting  his  master,  who  was  evi- 
dently wounded.  The  yacht  was  hardly  twenty  steps 
away,  and  the  black  scoundrel  was  making  desperate 
efforts  to  get  him  aboard.  Hargrove  was  perfectly  help- 
less. He  must  have  been  wounded  somewhere  about  the 
spine,  as  he  seemed  unable  to  use  his  limbs  at  all,  though 
he  was  quite  conscious  and  able  to  use  his  hands  very 
freely,  as  he  afterwards  showed.  The  neighbors  at  once 
opened  fire  on  the  precious  pair.  Hargrove  looked  around, 
and,  seeing  that  escape  was  hopeless,  spoke  a  few  words 
to  the  negro.  A  black-bearded  scoundrel,  who  stood  in 
the  stern  of  the  yacht  with  a  knife  raised  ready  to  cut 
the  rope,  called  out  to  them  to  make  haste.  Unthank 
laid  his  master  on  the  ground  at  the  foot  of  a  large  water- 
oak,  and  raising  his  gun  drew  a  bead  on  the  advancing 
party.  Hargrove,  however,  forbade  him  to  fire,  and  taking 
a  packet  from  his  bosom  gave  it  to  him  and  ordered 
him  aboard  the  yacht.  The  negro  refiised  to  obey.  Har- 
grove again  commanded  him,  to  go.  Upon  his  refusing  a 
second  time,  Hargrove  ordered  the  man  in  the  stern  to 
cut  loose.  The  rascal  did  so  without  waiting  for  fur- 
ther orders.  Unthank,  seeing  it  was  his  last  chance,  ran 
down  the  slope  and  jumped  from  the  landing  just  as  the 
yacht  swung  out  into  the  wind.  The  neighbors  rushed 
forward  to  prevent  the  escape  of  tlie  slaves,  but  before 
they  had  advanced  ten  steps  were  fired  upon  by  Hargrove. 
As  he  was  known  to  be  a  desperate  villain  and  was  un- 


410  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

doubtedly  Avell  armed,  besides  being  protected  by  the  tree, 
it  was  not  a  safe  matter  to  advance  upon  him  without 
cover.  While  those  in  front  fired  upon  him  steadily,  some 
others  of  the  party  crawled  through  a  little  belt  of  bushes 
above  where  he  lay  and  sent  a  bullet  crashing  through 
his  skull.  He  was  vmdoubtedly  saving  his  fire,  expecting 
a  rush  to  be  made  on  him  in  front.  Strangely  enough 
none  of  the  attacking  party  were  hurt,  though  Hargrove  is 
known  to  have  been  the  best  rifle-shot  ever  seen  in  these 
parts.  By  that  time  the  day  had  broken,  and  the  yacht 
was  dancing  over  the  water  before  a  twelve-knot  breeze 
half  a  mile  away, 

"It  was  discovered  afterward  that  the  Sea  Foam  had 
a  consort  outside  the  bar  to  which  her  cargo  was  trans- 
ferred. She  had  evidently,  made  one  or  two  trips  before 
the  one  on  which  she  was  discovered,  as  more  than  fifty 
slaves  are  missing  from  the  plantation.  Documents 
that  were  found  upon  the  person  of  this  daring  robber 
show  that  he  intended  to  remove  every  slave  at  Mallow- 
banks,  It  is  perhaps  but  fair  to  say  that  he  claimed  these 
slaves  not  as  executor  but  as  legatee  under  the  will  of  his 
half-brother.  The  court  was  unable  to  try  the  question 
of  his  right  by  reason  of  his  refusal  to  come  forward  and 
reply  to  the  interrogatories  of  the  complainant.  Being  a 
non-resident  the  court  had  no  jurisdiction  over  him  except 
to  enjoin  him  from  removing  the  property.  The  neighbors 
were  so  enraged  that  the  dead  body  was  treated  somewhat 
voughly,  until  the  overseer  at  Mallowbanks  took  it  in 
charge.  The  coroner  has  been  informed,  and  a  jury  will 
probably  be  impaneled  who  will  thoroughly  examine  into 
the  affair.  Major  Sherwood  Eighmie  starts  North  to-day  to 
take  steps  to  secure  remuneration  from  the  estate  of  the 
dead  kidnapper  for  the  loss  sustained.  The  community 
are  probably  indebted  to  him  for  ridding  the  coast  of  a 
most  dangerous  enemy.  It  is  said  that  the  deceased  was 
such  an  insatiable  negro  lover  that  he  took  his  brother's 
favorite  wench  and    her  niulatto  children  to   his   palatial 


A  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  BUCCANEER.      411 

home  among  the  Catskills  and  introduced  them  into  the 
selectest  circles  of  Northern  Abolition  society  as  his  own 
wife  and  daughter  ! 

"This  is  altogether  the  most  daring  piece  of  villany  the 
abolitionists  have  yet  attemi^ted.  The  recent  expulsion 
from  our  soil  of  the  Massachusetts  attorney  who  came  to 
the  state  expressly  to  gain  a  residence  in  order  to  test  some 
points  of  our  slave  code  before  the  Federal  courts,  must  now 
be  recognized  as  a  wise  and  prudent  measure.  The  letter 
of  the  law  is  not  always  to  be  relied  upon.  Perhaps,  under 
the  circumstances,  the  act  in  which  Hargrove  was  engaged 
would  not  be  held  to  be  a  felony,  but  it  was  certainly  very 
natural  that  men  who  saw  themselves  about  to  be  robbed 
by  an  armed  marauder  should  not  be  over-nice  in  their 
conduct  toward  him.  A  number  of  shots  are  said  to  have 
taken  effect  upon  him,  and  it  would  probably  be  impossi- 
ble to  ascertain  who  fired  the  one  that  actually  caused  his 
death.  There,  was  nothing  found  upon  his  body  to  impli- 
cate any  other  parties  in  his  act.  Indeed,  there  was  an 
explicit  disclaimer,  and  a  declaration  written  in  his  own 
hand,  and  dated  the  day  before,  affirming  that  he  only  did 
it  in  the  assertion  of  his  lawful  ownership  of  the  property. 
No  reliance  can  be  put  on  the  declarations  of  such  an  out- 
cast from  decent  society,  and  it  is  exceedingly  improbable 
that  it  is  true.  The  whole  body  of  abolitionists  of  the 
North  are  undoubtedly  responsible  for  this  invasion  of 
our  soil  and  violation  of  our  rights.  We  counsel  our  peo- 
ple to  exercise  moderation,  but  vigilance.  Every  Yankee 
craft  that  comes  into  our  waters  should  be  thoroughly 
overhauled  for  stowaways,  and  not  one  should  ever  be 
allowed  to  leave  her  moorings  without  being  so  thorouglily 
fumigated  as  to  drive  out  or  kill  every  living  thing  under 
lier  hatches.  The  South  must  protect  itself  and  its  insti- 
tutions against  the  envy  and  greed  of  Northern  hypocrites 
and  fanatics." 

So  the  descendant  of  the  buccaneer,  who  had  risked 
his  life  in  planting  slavery  in  the  colony,  was  slain  in 


413  HOT  PLOWSHABES. 

the  attempt  to  restore  the  children  of  those  slaves  to 
freedom. 

As  the  people  of  Skendoah  attributed  their  misfor- 
tune to  slavery,  as  an  ultimate  cause,  so  the  citizens  of 
Clayburn  county  accounted  the  abolition  fanaticism  the 
disturber  of  their  peace.  Distrust  was  paving  the  way 
for  strife. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

A  CHANGE   OF   BASE. 

The  time  had  come  when  he  who  should  untie  the 
Gordian  knot  of  slavery  was  to  appear.  Thousands  of 
the  best  and  bravest  had  grappled  with  the  problem 
in  vain.  Many  a  gallant  knight  had  graven  "Liberty" 
upon  his  helm  only  to  find  himself  sooner  or  later  doing 
battle  for  slavery.  The  high  and  the  low  had  been 
baffled.  What  seemed  at  the  beginning  an  insoluble 
enigma  had  grown  daily  more  intricate  and  difficult. 
Slavery,  which  had  grown  from  a  little  speck  to  cover 
half  the  political  horizon,  had  from  the  first  falsified  all 
theories.  Instead  of  dying  it  had  flourished  ;  instead 
of  losing  strength  it  had  gained  power ;  instead  of 
yielding  to  the  sentiment  of  the  world  it  openly  defied 
it.  It  ruled  not  only  the  states  where  it  existed,  but 
those  which  fattened  on  its  results.  The  great  indus- 
tries of  the  North  consumed  its  raw  material  and  sup- 
plied its  demand  for  manufactured  articles  and  bowed 
to  its  behests.  Cotton  was  king,  and  slavery  was  the 
suzerain  of  cotton.  In  pride,  in  power,  in  wealth,  it 
had  grown  with  every  decade  stronger  and  stronger, 
until  now  it  seemed  that  the  nation  was  under  its  abso- 
lute control.  The  sentiment  of  the  North  had  grown 
year  by  year  more  pronounced,  and  the  opposition  to 
slavery  more  and  more  determined,  yet  the  way  to  its 
extirpation  seemed  hourly  to  grow  more  difficult,  and 
the  desired  end  to  be  farther  and  farther  away.  Before 
the  wave  of  sentiment  uprose  forever  the  barrier  of 
the  Constitution.  The  fundamental  law  of  the  nation's 
life  stood  betAveen  slavery  and  the  onslaught  of  its  foes. 
413 


414  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

Amendment  in  the  manner  prescribed  was  hopeless. 
Around  or  behind  this  instrument  there  seemed  to  be 
no  feasible  method  of  going.  To  trample  it  under  foot 
was  to  destroy  the  nation  based  upon  it.  The  life  of 
the  Republic  was  pledged  for  the  life  of  slavery.  "The 
irrepressible  conflict"  still  held  on  its  triumphant  way 
in  the  hearts  of  the  American  people,  but  none  could 
see  any  way  to  victory.  Some  there  were  who  demanded 
the  forcible  removal  of  the  obstacle.  One  man  who  had 
not  ceased  to  declare  for  many  years  that  only  blood 
could  wash  away  the  evil  was  preparing  to  make  good 
his  prophecy.  He  looked  forward  to  a  day  when  the 
slave  should  win  his  way  to  freedom  by  force.  There 
were  many  who  agreed  with  him  that  there  was  no 
other  method.  Some  listened  to  his  plans  and  vaguely 
indorsed  his  designs.  To  many  they  were  partially  dis- 
closed, but  none  knew  their  details.  He  had  one 
thought  only :  slavery  must  be  destroyed.  He  cared 
little  for  the  Constitution,  or  the  nation  builded  thereon. 
Laws,  customs  and  institutions  were  nothing  to  him ; 
only  the  men  who  were  subject  to  them  were  sacred  in 
his  eyes.  For  him  the  universe  held  but  two  facts — 
God,  who  created  all  things,  and  man,  made  in  His 
image.  That  slavery  was  an  evil  was  all  he  needed  to 
know.  That  it  was  doomed  to  destruction  was,  by  the 
mere  fact  of  its  unholiness,  rendered  certain  beyond 
question  to  his  mind.  How  it  should  be  destroyed  he 
he  did  not  know — he  did  not  care.  That  men  should 
die  in  compassing  its  destruction  he  did  not  doubt ; 
whether  one  or  ten  or  millions  it  mattered  not.  He 
counted  liberty  as  part  of  the  revealed  Word,  which 
he  devoutly  believed,  and  to  him  it  was  of  infinitely  less 
moment  that  men  should  die  than  that  its  lightest  syl- 
lable should  fail.  So,  too,  while  he  lived  for  humanity, 
he  thought  it  far  better  that  a  nation  or  a  race  even 
should  perish  from  the  face  of  the  earth  than  that  they 


A   CHANGE  OF  BASE.  415 

should  live  to  suffer  wrong.  Righteousness  and  wrong 
were  his  two  abstractions.  To  overcome  the  one  was 
to  do  the  other.  He  regarded  the  nation  only  as  a 
means  for  achieving  a  specific  end.  If  the  end  was  not 
completely  achieved  he  thought  the  instrument  should 
be  at  once  discarded.  On  the  plains  of  Kansas,  in  the 
swamps  of  the  South,  among  the  snows  of  the  Adiron- 
dacks,  and  in  the  mountains  of  Virginia,  he  thought  of 
but  one  thing — how  he  might  redeem  the  slave  from  the 
wrong  of  servitude.  Without  selfishness  or  malice  or 
greed,  hating  with  undying  bitterness  the  sin  of  slavery, 
he  could  see  no  obstacle  in  the  way  of  liberation  of 
the  slaves,  except  the  insincerity  and  inertness  of  the 
people.  John  Brown  represented  one  extreme  of  thought. 
Few  even  of  those  who  agreed  with  him  had  the  courage 
and  self-denial  to  adopt  the  methods  he  espoused.  He 
represented  the  sentiment  of  the  most  active  and  ultra 
portion  of  the  anti-slaveiy  element.  The  destruction  of 
slavery  at  once  and  at  all  hazards  was  their  controlling 
motive.  These  people  had  done  the  better  portion  of 
the  work  of  awakening  public  sentiment  upon  this  ques- 
tion. They  were  the  pioneers  without  being  the  leaders 
of  popular  belief.  There  was  little  need,  at  the  time  of 
which  we  write,  of  laboring  to  convince  the  Northern 
masses  of  the  desirability  of  the  result  they  desired  to 
accomplish.  How  to  obtain  it  without  overthrowing  the 
national  fabric  was  the  sole  question. 

It  is  a  sti'ange  fact,  and  shows  a  queer  phase  of  our 
American  character,  that  many  of  those  who  were  wil- 
ling to  violate  the  statute  law  in  aiding  the  fugitive 
slave,  who  would  even  imperil  life  and  liberty  in  se- 
curing for  the  bondman  the  means  to  escape,  and  were 
ready  to  defend  and  protect  him  in  such  unlawful 
acts,  no  sooner  perceived  that  a  movement  involved 
the  subversion  of  the  Constitution,  or  actual  defiance 
of  its  authority,   than   they  at    once    refused  all  con- 


41C  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

nection  therewith.  They  were  wiUing  to  violate  the 
law — to  become  felons,  perhaps,  but  they  could  not 
contemplate  with  composure  the  abrogation  of  the 
great  contract  that  constitutes  the  charter  of  our  liber- 
ties. Of  these  there  were  very  many.  It  mattered  not 
how  deep  their  conviction  of  the  right  of  liberty  and  the 
evil  of  slavery,  they  were  read}^  to  endure  the  evil  a 
w^hile  longer  rather  than  antagonize  the  basis  principles 
of  our  Constitution  by  assailing  the  citadel  of  the  state's 
right,  within  which  slavery  was  enti^enched.  This  was 
the  feeling  of  the  great  mass  of  the  people.  The 
fanatics,  who  were  ready  and  willing  to  do  and  dare 
anything,  were  few,  very  few,  in  comparison.  It  was 
evident  that  only  an  absolute  conviction  of  the  direst 
necessity  for  such  a  course  would  induce  the  American 
people  even  to  put  itself  on  guard  against  the  institution 
of  slavery.  To  move  against  it  openly  was  regarded  as 
treason ;  to  combine  against  it  secretly  was  accounted 
sedition. 

Besides  all  this,  and  after  all  that  could  be  said,  no 
matter  how  deep  their  abhorrence  might  be,  there  were 
very  many  people  of  the  North  who  excused  their  inac- 
tion by  the  declaration : 

"It  is  not  a  matter  for  us  to  consider.  The  sin  of 
Slavery  does  not  lie  at  our  doors,  nor  the  danger.  The 
institution  belongs  to  the  South.  Our  hands  are  clean. 
If  they  desire  to  invite  the  curse  it  must  entail,  well  and 
good.     "We  cannot  hinder  them." 

Many  strove  to  overthrow  this  delusion  and  prove  that 
every  man  of  the  North  was,  morally,  at  least,  respon- 
sible for  the  act  of  his  fellow-citizen  of  the  South.  But 
in  this  they  made  little  progress,  as  it  seemed,  until 
there  came  one  to  whose  homel}'  sentences  the  people  lis- 
tened as  if  he  spake  by  inspiration.  So  clear  and  cogent 
were  his  reasons  that  no  one  gave  him  credit  for  utter- 
ing any  new  truths.     They  seemed  so  plain  and  simple 


A   CHANGE   OF  BASE.  417 

that  the  dullest  listener  conceived  that  he  only  heard 
a  re-statement  of  his  own  thought.  He  was  a  man 
born  of  the  people,  as  are  all  in  whom  the  spirit  of  the 
Deliverer  dwells.  From  Mary's  son  till  now  the  Messi- 
anic spirit  has  ever  appeared  beneath  the  lowhest 
lintel.  The  Deliverer  comes  always  from  the  plain. 
The  middle  class— above  the  abject  poor,  and  below  the 
soul-dwarfed  rich — is  that  which  gives  the  world  the  men 
that  overturn  its  institutions,  relieve  its  people  from 
the  bondage  of  their  past  and  open  the  gateway  of  the 
future.  The  greatest  of  our  mighty  men  was  one  who 
stood  among  us  in  such  simple  guise  that  even  those 
who  sat  at  meat  with  him  dreamed  not  of  his  great- 
ness. 

By  birthright  he  was  of  the  South,  and,  as  such, 
cursed  by  its  destiny.  Father  and  mother,  smitten 
by  poverty  and  ignorance,  dwelt  in  the  shadow  of 
the  Kentucky  "knobs."  The  destiny  of  the  "poor- 
white"  brooded  over  their  united  lives.  Slavery  which 
made  few  rich  and  many  poor  counted  them  among 
its  victims.  The  shame  which  passed  by  the  slave 
because  of  his  irresponsibility,  lighted  on  the  freeman, 
compelled,  hke  him,  to  toil.  So  that  labor  became 
a  badge  of  degradation ;  and  need,  which  elsewhere  was 
the  spur  to  increased  endeavor,  there  became  only  a 
whip  to  sting  and  t-o  debase.  Labor  was  degenerated 
into  a  badge  of  servitude — the  mark  of  a  subverted  man- 
hood. Only  idleness  was  honorable.  He  whose  hand 
was  forced  to  toil  for  self-support  was  kindred  to  the 
slave  and  even  less  esteemed.  Even  the  slave's  con- 
tempt was  visited  on  such.  "Poor-white!"  How  the 
name  stuck  and  stung  and  dragged  downwards  !  What 
a  world  of  humiliation  in  its  two  syllables !  Com- 
miseration, contempt— despair !  "White  trash!"  Ex- 
pressive synonym  !  The  fringe  of  a  race  of  princes  ! 
The  debris  of  a  people  whose  prerogative  it  was  to  rule, 


418  JJOT  PLOWSHARES. 

and  whose  distinctive  privilege  it  was  to  be  served  by 
another.  It  was  a  sad  estate,  full  of  shame  and  self- 
abasement,  and  all  the  more  degrading  because  their 
only  pride  lay  in  the  fact  that  they  were  allied  in  blood 
to  the  class  who  ruled  and  contemned  them.  Such  was 
the  genesis  of  the  Deliverer.  The  poor-white  birth- 
mark was  his  sole  inheritance. 

Yet  not  in  his  own  person  did  he  feel  this  degrada- 
tion. Across  the  narrow  river  that  skirts  "the  dark 
and  bloody  ground"  upon  the  Northward,  a  younger 
sister  state,  with  a  happier  destiny,  had  been  estab- 
lished. His  Bethlehem  was  on  the  Sangamon.  Yet  the 
brand  of  the  "poor-white  "  was  stamped  upon  his  soul. 
Poverty  and  ignorance  and  hopelessness  rocked  his 
cradle.  Laughter  and  teSrs  were  strangely  mingled  in 
his  nature.  Little  by  little  he  came  to  know  himself. 
More  than  thirty  years  he  served  before  he  knew  that 
he  had  a  mission  to  perform.  He  was  always  a  dreamer. 
He  did  not  fast  in  the  desert  nor  flee  to  the  caverns  for 
inspiration;  but  the  forest  and  the  stream  and  the 
prairie — silence  and  solitude  and  distance — nourished 
the  dream  of  poAver,  revealed  to  him  himself.  He  had 
few  books  and  no  teachers.  Man  and  nature  were  the 
volumes  which  he  read  most  easily  and  studied  most 
assiduously. 

He  was  not  profoundly  versed  in  the  lore  of  the  past, 
but  the  facts  of  the  present  were  indelibly  stamped  upon 
his  mind.  His  philosophy  was  direct  and  simple.  He 
did  not  waste  time  in  elaborating  systems  for  the  future 
or  reasons  for  the  past.  How  things  came  to  be  as  they 
were  he  was  at  no  trouble  to  explain.  What  should 
be  the  ultimate  outcome  of  the  mixture  of  good  and 
evil  which  we  call  life,  he  gave  little  thought  to  deter- 
mining. The  duty  of  the  present  and  its  relations  to  the 
nearer  future  he  perceived  with  the  utmost  clearness. 

The  accident  of  stature  first  opened  the  way  to  leader- 


A   CHANOE  OF  BASE.  419 

ship.  The  desire  to  be  foremost  spurred  him  to  renewed 
exertion.  Slowly  he  awoke  to  the  knowledge  of  power. 
Uncultured  of  mind  and  uncouth  of  limb,  none  looked 
to  him  for  a  leadership  in  thought.  Yet  his  words  were 
like  winged  arrows.  He  used  the  simple  dialect  of  the 
people,  and  spoke  directly  to  their  hearts. 

The  peril  of  the  near  future  rested  like  a  shadow 
upon  his  life.  To  him  the  nation  was  the  sum  of  all 
excellence.  Flaws  in  it  were  like  spots  in  the  sunshine.. 
He  revered  the  Constitution  no  less  than  its  most  de- 
voted worshipper.  To  him  it  was  the  guarantee  of  all 
that  made  liberty  desirable.  He  hated  slavery  as  an 
enemy  of  the  dominant  race.  He  felt  himself  wronged 
through  generations  by  its  blight.  It  was  not  pity  for 
the  slave  that  moved  him  to  oppose  the  system,  so 
much  as  dread  of  the  system  itself  and  its  paralyzing 
and  debasing  effects  upon  every  grade  of  society  exposed 
to  its  influence.  He  felt  its  injustice,  not  merely  to  those 
who  served  without  reward,  bvit  also  to  those  who,  by 
its  influence,  were  shut  out  of  the  struggle  of  life — the 
fair  competition  for  its  rewards. 

He  did  not  profess  to  be  more  profoundly  versed  in 
the  philosophy  and  history  of  this  question  than  others. 
On  the  contrary,  in  this  respect  he  followed  gladly 
where  others  led.  He  seconded  rather  than  directed 
in  any  considerable  degree  the  efforts  to  awaken  in- 
terest in  the  character  of  slavery  and  to  combine  the 
people  of  the  North  in  philanthropic  movements  in, 
behalf  of  the  slaves.  Justice  rather  than  pity  marked 
his  attitude  toward  them.  By  the  most  fanatical  he 
was  even  regarded  as  lukewarm  in  the  cause  of  which, 
he  was  destined  to  become  the  one  immortal  leader  and 
exemplar.  He  was  no  impassioned  advocate  of  mercy. 
It  was  not  his  mission  to  deal  with  the  philosophy  of  the 
primai-y  cause  or  resultant  effects  of  social  movements. 
The  function    reserved    to   him  was  to   perceive  with 


420  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

unequaled  clearness  the  consequence  of  admitted  facts, 
to  impress  them  upon  the  popular  heart  as  no  one  else 
had  ever  done,  and  then  to  find  a  way  to  avoid  the  peril 
that  impended.  Sprung  from  the  people,  his  reverence 
for  their  will  and  belief  in  their  ultimate  decision  were  so 
great  that  he  was  sometimes  deemed  a  demagogue.  He 
was  not  one,  however,  that  bowed  to  the  half-formed 
will  of  the  masses,  but  one  who  sought  to  bring  them 
up  to  his  own  conviction — not  with  reproaches  and 
sneers,  not  Avith  arrogance  and  scorn,  but  with  unceas- 
ing humilit}^,  a  never-failing  good  temper,  and  a  famil- 
iarity and  sincerity  of  statement  that  in  the  end  always 
won  his  way  to  the  popular  heart.  As  a  philanthropist 
he  was  inferior  to  thousands ;  as  a  student  of  the  facts 
of  history  and  politics  he  was  easily  distanced  by  scores 
of  his  contemporaries ;  as  a  fervid  and  impassioned  ora- 
tor he  was  excelled  by  many  ;  but  as  one  who  realized 
the  peril  of  the  hour  and  had  ]30wer  to  make  the  voice  of 
the  people  in  very  truth  the  voice  of  God,  he  was  easily 
foremost.  In  capacity  to  devise  a  way  of  escape  from 
peril,  and  to  lead  the  people  willingly  and  gladly  along 
the  narrow  path  by  which  alone  safety  was  possible,  he 
was  unapproached  by  any  man  of  his  day. 

The  party  representing  the  anti-slavery  idea,  which 
had  been  based  on  the  declaration  that  "  the  re- 
pression of  slavery  "  was  desirable,  recoiled  from  its 
first  conflict  with  the  slave-power  less  demoralized  by 
defeat  than  amazed  at  the  near  approach  to  victory 
which  it  had  accomplished.  Yet  this  result  had  been 
achieved,  as  we  have  already  shown,  more  by  the  acci- 
dental co-operation  of  discordant  elements  than  by  the 
harmonious  action  of  a  consolidated  and  homogeneous 
party.  No  sooner  had  it  demonstrated  its  power  than 
incongruous  elements  began  to  develop  within  it.  Not 
only  the  strife  of  ambitious  leaders,  but  the  radical  di- 
vergence of  factions  animated  by  mutually  antagonistic 


A  CHANGE  OF  BASE.  421 

impulses,  promised  not  merely  to  prevent  a  complete 
and  stable  organization,  but  also  to  render  futile  all 
hope  of  future  victory.  What  was  needed  was  a  mor- 
dant that  should  cause  all  these  factious  to  adhere  to  a 
common  purpose — to  remain  faithful  to  a  common  end. 
This  solvent  of  hostile  ideas  was  first  obtained  when  the 
uncouth  backwoodsman  was  chosen  by  his  party  associ- 
ates to  represent  them  and  uphold  the  principles  of  the 
yet  inchoate  party  in  an  oratorical  conflict  with  the 
subtlest,  strongest,  ablest  of  the  champions  of  state  sov- 
ereignty and  the  peculiar  institution  which  flourished 
under  its  protection.  All  unconscious  that  his  words  were 
the  master-key  of  the  situation,  Abraham  Lincoln  rose  at 
once  from  an  obscurity  which  is  all  the  more  remark- 
able because  it  contained  no  appreciable  hint  of  the 
eminence  that  awaited  him,  to  the  very  front  rank  of 
his  age,  when  he  put  forth  as  the  basis  of  the  moment- 
ous struggle  in  which  he  was  about  to  engage  this  pro- 
position : 

"A  house  divided  against  itself  cannot  stand  .  .  . 
The  American  nation  must  be  all  free  or  all  slave." 

On  that  issue  the  battle  was  joined  anew.  From 
that  hour  the  conflict  was  waged  on  no  other  ground. 
The  most  fanatical  and  the  most  conservative  elements 
of  the  free  state  civilization  met  here  upon  a  common 
level.  Thenceforward  Abraham  Lincoln  was  the  un- 
questioned leader  of  the  movement  for  the  overthrow  of 
slavery — the  generalissimo  of  all  the  forces  mustering  for 
its  destruction.  For  the  first  time  a  means  had  been 
found  to  harmonize  all  differences  of  sentiment  and  se- 
cure the  utmost  unity  of  purpose  and  action  on  the  part 
of  all  who  were  opposed  to  the  "peculiar  institution," 
which  held  in  its  degrading  touch  one  half  the  land,  and 
threatened  with  its  demoralizing  influences  the  other 
moiety.  The  great  dilemma — "all  free  or  all  slave" — 
stared  the  American  people  in  the  face  as  the  unavoid- 


432  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

able  fact  of  the  near  future.  To  the  people  of  the  North 
it  came  like  a  revelation  sustained  by  irrefragable  proofs. 
The  disruption  of  the  treaty  which  the  slave-power  had 
itself  proposed ;  the  seizure  of  Kansas  through  the  co- 
operation of  the  established  government ;  the  Fugitive 
Slave  law,  and  the  aggressions  upon  personal  liberty 
thereunder,  all  pointed  to  the  dilemma  which  this  clear- 
sighted child  of  the  people  placed  before  them  for  con- 
sideration. It  needed  no  argument  and  admitted  of  no 
hesitation.  There  was  but  one  question:  If  free  or 
slave,  which  ?  In  every  man's  consciousness  it  became 
a  ceaseless  refrain.  To  the  objection  that  nothing  could 
be  done  except  through  a  violation  of  the  Constitution, 
there  was  but  one  answer:  "Free  or  slave?"  There 
was  in  this  no  attack  upon  the  "compact  made  between 
the  states,"  or  "the  sacred  pledge  which  the  fathers 
gave."  It  was  no  appeal  to  a  "higher  law,"  and  yet 
there  was  no  farther  room  for  the  excuse:  "It  is  no 
concern  of  ours."  "Mason  and  Dixon's  line"  was  no 
longer  the  boundary  of  evil  consequences  resulting  from 
slavery.  "All  free  or  all  slave  "  stood  at  the  threshold 
of  every  Northern  home,  and  compelled  father,  brother 
and  son  to  decide  upon  the  dread  alternative  before  they 
crossed  the  lintel.  All  who  regarded  slavery  as  an 
evil,  an  injustice  or  a  sin  were  by  this  one  thought  mar- 
shaled under  the  banner  of  this  new  leader.  From  this 
text  he  never  swerved. 

Undoubtedly  the  contest  between  Lincoln  and  Doug- 
las was  the  most  momentous  oratorical  struggle  that 
ever  occurred.  Both  men  were  firm  believers  in  the 
views  they  advocated,  and  each  represented  a  new  idea. 
The  one  idea  was  a  subtle  evasion,  a  specious  make- 
shift, designed  to  avoid  apparent  objection  to  the  ex- 
tension of  slavery,  and,  under  the  guise  of  absolute 
impartiality  to  all  parties,  sections  and  ideas,  to  render 
possible  its  peaceful  establishment  on  the  plains  of  the 


A  CHANGE  OF  BASE.  423 

West,  It  was  a  measure  which  no  Southern  champion 
of  slavery  could  ever  have  devised.  It  was  noteworthy 
for  its  subtle  appreciation  of  the  spirit  and  genius  of  the 
North.  As  a  piece  of  mere  political  shrewdness  it  is 
almost  without  a  parallel  in  history.  Those  in  whose 
behalf  it  was  conceived  and  put  forth  could  only  half 
appreciate  its  specious  strength.  Against  argument  it 
stood  well-nigh  impregnable.  The  distinctions  on  which 
it  was  based  were  so  subtle,  its  discriminations  were  so 
keen,  that  it  was  hardly  susceptible  of  popular  refuta- 
tion, except  from  the  standpoint  of  its  consequences. 
But  the  proposition  which  Mr.  Lincoln  put  forth,  while 
offering  the  most  perfect  possible  reply  to  the  theory  of 
"squatter  sovereignty,"  was  also  one  which  put  not 
only  the  expounder  of  that  doctrine  but  even  tli6  man 
who  was  merely  tolerant  of  slavery,  on  his  defense.  It 
was  at  once  a  parry  and  a  thrust.  It  was  like  a  turn 
of  the  wrist  of  the  expert  swordsman.  It  seemed  so 
easy  that  we  forgot  the  power,  the  skill,  the  intellect 
that  lay  behind  its  elucidation  and  its  application.  It 
set  over  against  the  perils  of  slavery  the  blessings  of 
lil^erty.  Through  the  dread  of  slavery  it  impelled,  and 
by  the  love  of  liberty  it  induced  co-operation  in  any 
movement  that  should  most  readily  and  easily  destroy 
the  one  and  establish  the  other.  It  was  a  trumpet-call 
that  mustered  at  once  all  the  forces  of  liberty  against 
the  life  of  slavery. 

From  that  moment  all  else  in  the  struggle  of  parties 
was  forgotten.  Whether  the  whole  land  should  be  free 
or  slave  was  the  only  question  worthy  of  consideration — 
an  issue  that  overbore  all  minor  differences.  The  South 
recognized  it  as  the  summons  to  the  last  great  battle. 
They  perceived  the  power  of  the  new  leader  even  before 
his  own  associates  became  aware  of  it.  To  the  latter 
he  was  known  simply  as  a  valiant  soldier  who  had 
met  the  champion  of  slavery  on  his  chosen  field,  and  in 


424  HOT  PL  0  WSIIAEES. 

the  face  of  assured  defeat  had  planted  deeply  and  se- 
curely the' seeds  of  ultimate  victory.  They  thought  of 
him  only  as  one  who,  single-handed  and  alone,  had  won 
from  the  enemy  an  important  stronghold.  The  chiefs  in 
the  anti-slavery  movement  had  no  thought  of  acknow- 
ledging him  as  their  leader.  Seward  and  Sumner  and 
Wade  and  Gi*eeley  and  Chase  and  Giddings  and  Gerrit 
Smith  and  AYendell  Phillips,  and  a  hundred  more  almost, 
would  have  laughed  at  the  idea  of  this  uncouth  child 
of  the  prairie  stepping  up  before  them  and  occupying, 
before  all  the  world  and  for  all  time,  unquestioned  pre- 
eminence as  "the  great  Emancipator."  Even  now  the 
especial  admirers  of  each  are  fond  of  putting  their 
names  before  that  of  the  unpretentious  giant  of  the 
Sangamon  country  as  leaders  in  the  great  anti-slavery 
conflict.  But  the  force  of  a  blow  must  be  judged  by  its 
results,  and  the  power  of  the  man  who  gives  it  by  the 
ease  with  Avhicli  it  is  delivered.  Judged  by  this  rule, 
Abraham  Lincoln  established  an  unquestioned  right  to 
the  foremost  place  as  a  leader  when  by  a  single  sentence 
he  made  victory  not  only  possible  but  inevitable — fused 
a  thousand  discordant  motives  into  one,  and  brought 
the  anti-slavery  struggle  down  from  the  domain  of  hu- 
manitarian theory  to  the  level  of  tangible  universal 
interest.  He  discovered  nothing,  but  he  transmuted 
weakness  into  power. 

There  are  those,  too,  in  whose  minds  the  feats  of 
knight-errantry  eclipse  the  splendor  of  victories  that 
change  the  face  of  history.  To  such  minds  the  glory  of 
the  partisan  leader  vastly  outshines  the  laurel  of  the 
unseen  and  undemonstrative  director  of  mighty  forces. 
To  these  the  anti-slavery  struggle  presents  as  heroes 
and  leaders  the  names  of  certain  gladiators — combatants 
of  the  press  and  forum,  who  stimulated  public  thought, 
pricked  the  public  conscience  and  did  yeoman  work  in 
tearing  down  the  citadel  of  established  dogma.     They 


A  CHANGE  OF  BASE.  425 

were  men  without  whose  aid  the  pubUc  sentiment  on 
which  the  great  strategic  movements  of  the  day  were 
based  could  never  have  existed.  But  having  done  that 
they  could  do  no  more.  Prophets  and  forerunners  and 
pioneers — pathfinders  who  pointed  out  the  way  of  liberty 
— their  day  had  almost  passed — their  work  had  all  but 
ended  when  the  practical  genius  of  Lincoln  combined 
the  forces  they  had  raised  and  marshaled  them  for  the 
grand  assault.  To  some  the  bright  swords  and  waving 
plumes  hid  the  calm,  grave  face  of  the  leader. 

The  South,  with  surer  prescience,  saw  its  enemy  afar 
off.  It  recognized  the  master-stroke  aimed  at  the 
corner-stone  instead  of  the  outworks  of  the  citadel. 
It  perceived  in  him  the  leader  of  the  grand  assault 
upon  the  position  which  slavery  occupied,  and  stub- 
bornly refused  to  credit  any  denial  that  was  made 
of  the  purpose  of  those  who  stood  with  him.  When, 
shortly  afterward,  he  was  made  the  heaxl  of  the  party 
organization,  they  did  not  hesitate  to  consider  it  a 
declaration  of  war  against  their  pet  institution.  And 
they  were  right  thus  far  at  least.  Abraham  Lincoln 
was  chosen  to  be  President  because  the  Republican 
party  had  determined  to  do  all  that  might  be  done, 
without  actual  violation  of  the  Constitution,  to  destroy 
slavery.  To  deny  that  fact  is  to  re-echo  a  quibble 
which,  while  it  might  not  be  reprehensible  in  a  heated 
controversy,  is  unworthy  the  attention  of  the  student 
of  a  mighty  revolution.  It  was  from  an  impulse  of 
self-defense,  therefore,  that  the  press  and  poUticians  of 
the  South  leveled  their  batteries  of  invective,  of  ridi- 
cule, of  infamy  against  him,  in  the  vain  hope  of  de- 
stroying him  before  his  power  was  understood  and 
appreciated  by  his  friends.  So  the  great,  kindly,  pure- 
hearted  Saul  became  a  "monster,"  a  "baboon,"  a 
"clown,"  a  "beast"— all  that  Avas  infamous  and  foul, 
and  remains  such  to  this  day  to  many  thousands  to 


426  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

whom  his  Ufe  was  a  most  beneficent  providence.  In 
nothing  did  his  greatness  show  more  clearly  than  in 
the  fact  that  nothing  provoked  him  to  anger,  and  he 
made  answer  to  no  aspersion.  Unfaltering  in  his  devo- 
tion to  the  principle  that  liberty  and  slavery  could  not 
co-exist,  unswerving  in  his  faith  in  the  wisdom  and 
fidelity  of  the  people,  he  trod  alone  the  pathway  which 
his  genius  first  discerned,  along  dizzy  heights,  through 
fateful  fens,  in  the  darkness  and  in  the  light ;  never 
going  too  fast  to  enable  the  whole  people  to  follow 
his  course,  and  never  moving  too  slow  when  once  as- 
sured of  the  support  which  was  necessary  to  success ; 
undaunted  by  fear  and  unblinded  by  ambition,  until 
the  end  was  reached  and  his  work  was  accomplished. 
Slavery  avenged  itself  through  him.  The  child  of  the 
"poor-white"  of  the  Kentucky  knobs  liberated  not 
the  slave  only,  but  those  whom  the  slave  had  been 
made  the  instrument  to  degrade.  Not  Emancipator 
only,  but  Liberator,  will  he  be  hailed  when  the  centu- 
ries look  back  upon  him. 

It  has  become  the  fashion  in  these  later  days  to  look 
upon  Lincoln  as  the  accident  of  an  accident  rather  than 
as  the  man  of  the  age — the  greatest  of  all  who  have 
borne  the  name  American.  Little  souls  who  came  near 
his  great  life — who  viewed  his  nature  as  the  insect  scans 
the  bark  of  the  oak  along  the  rugate  surface  of  Avhich 
he  creeps,  with  a  self-satisfied  contempt  of  the  rude 
strength  and  solid  core  that  lies  within — have  been 
winning  for  themselves  a  sort  of  immortality  and  an 
infinitude  of  contempt  by  trying  to  paint  the  man 
whose  perfections  they  could  never  apprehend.  Our 
literature  has  been  overrun  with  a  horde  of  puny 
drivelers  made  purblind  by  the  glory  of  a  life  whose 
light  was  so  serene  and  steady  that  they  counted  it  but 
a  reflection  of  the  lurid  conflict  amid  which  he  lived. 
It   was    not   because    one    mas    gciieined   or   auother 


A  CHANGE  OF  BASE.  427 

paltered  that  Abraham  Lincohi  came  to  the  leadership 
of  the  hosts  of  freedom.  Neither  was  it  through  the 
merit  of  any  or  all  of  his  advisers  that  he  succeeded  in 
accomplishing  the  task  set  before  him,  but  chiefly  through 
his  own  consummate  genius  and  unmatched .  power. 
It  was  not  luck  but  intellect  that  brought  him  from 
obscurity  to  the  forefront  of  the  greatest  movement  in 
history.  The  men  who  stood  beside  him  were  pigmies 
in  practical  power  when  compared  with  him.  He  was 
so  great  that  he  needed  no  padding,  and  was  careless  of 
his  fame.  As  he  came  from  the  people  so  he  left  him- 
self fearlessly  in  their  hands.  It  has  been  customary, 
while  admitting  his  prudence,  sagacity  and  self-control, 
to  depreciate  his  intellectual  power.  The  change  of 
position  which  he  eftected  by  a  single  phrase,  was  so 
easily  done  and  seemed  so  evident  when  once  put  forth, 
that  few  have  stopped  to  think  that  the  intellect  of 
Sumner,  the  prophetic  grasp  of  Seward,  the  foresight  of 
Chase  and  the  brain  of  a  thousand  others  who  seemed 
his  compeers,  had  been  thitherto  utterly  unable  to  form- 
ulate a  common  ground  of  opposition  to  slavery,  which 
should  commend  itself  to  the  mind  and  conscience 
of  the  people.  He  alone,  of  all  the  men  of  that  time, 
had  the  sagacity  to  discover  the  key  of  the  posi- 
tion, to  unite  all  the  discordant  elements  in  the  attack 
upon  it,  and  to  hold  them  up  to  the  conflict  until  the 
victory  was  won.  By  that  thought  he  fused  all  the 
discordant  elements  into  one.  It  was  one  of  those 
strokes  of  power  which  mark  the  highest  genius.  By 
this  alone  he  would  have  estabhshed  his  claim  to 
rank  as  much  above  his  associates  in  intellect  as  he  is 
admitted  to  have  stood,  in  sagacity,  devotion  and  self- 
forgetfulness.  Standing  on  a  level  with  the  lowliest,  he 
towered  conspicuously  above  the  greatest.  Those  who 
saw  the  apparent  ease  with  which  he  achieved  these 
results  only  half  realized  his  greatness.    Their  regard 


438  HOT  PL 0  WSHARES. 

was  dissipated  by  a  thousand  insignificant  details. 
Only  the  future  can  properly  estimate  the  brain  that 
consolidated  the  opposition  to  slavery,  held  the  na- 
tion to  the  work  of  putting  down  rebellion,  and  called 
his  cabinet  together  only  to  consider  the  wording  of 
a  proclamation  that  was  to  change  the  status  of  a 
race  forever.  He  bestrode  our  land  like  a  Colossus, 
all  unconscious  of  his  own  power,  frankly  esteeming 
others  at  their  just  value — incapable  of  detraction  or 
envy,  and  trusting  his  fame,  with  a  magnificent  un- 
concern as  to  the  result,  to  the  future.  Pure,  simple, 
unassuming,  kindly,  touched  with  sadness  and  relieved 
with  mirth,  but  never  stained  with  falsehood  or  treach- 
ery, or  any  hint  of  shameful  act ;  his  heart  as  tender 
as  his  life  was  grand  ;  he  stands  in  history  a  little  child 
in  his  humility,  a  saint  in  purity,  a  king  in  power.  0ft- 
spring  of  the  sadly  smitten  South  ;  nursling  of  the  favored 
Xorth  ;  giant  of  the  great  West — his  life  was  the  richest 
fruitage  of  the  liberty  he  loved !  His  name  is  the  top- 
most which  a  continent  has  given  unto  fame  1 


CHAPTEK  XXXV. 

BLINDFOLD  AND  BAREFOOT. 

Beechwood  Seminary  stood  just  without  the  pur- 
lieus of  one  of  the  busy  httle  towns  that  are  hidden 
among  the  New  England  hills.  The  ceaseless  groan 
of  water-wheels,  the  breath  of  wheezing  engines,  the 
hum  of  lathes,  the  whir  of  spindles,  the  ring  of  pulsing 
hammers  and  the  hiss  of  glowing  forges  filled  the  steep- 
sided  ravine  along  which  the  village  was  builded.  It  was 
a  gobhn's  cave  set  in  a  quiet,  peaceful  scene.  Its  people 
were  slaves  who  worked  for  the  gnomes  of  trade.  ^Motion 
and  force  were  incarnate  in  their  lives.  They  wrought 
with  dull  hands  magical  transformations.  Earth  became 
crystal  beneath  their  touch.  The  misty  fibre  that  the  wind 
blew  here  and  there  became  the  snowy  web  that  wrapt  the 
limbs  of  beauty  or  the  cable  that  bade  defiance  to  the 
storm.  Kature  shrunk  away  from  her  busy,  boastful  rival. 
Where  she  had  ended  her  work,  science  and  art  began 
theirs.  They  mocked  at  her  tardy  processes,  and  scorned 
her  incomplete  results.  They  stole  her  secrets  ;  scat- 
tered her  treasures  ;  prisoned  her  forces,  and  made  of 
the  once  silent  glen  a  busy,  bustling,  throbbing  hive  of 
crowded,  wearied,  weighted  life.  On  either  side  the 
hills  rose  sharp  and  stern.  From  base  to  summit  they 
were  clothed  with  a  garment  of  verdure  that  even  in 
winter  hid  half  their  ruggedness.  The  laurel  thrust  its 
contorted  limbs  across  the  gray  cliffs  and  softened  their 
outlines  with  its  verdure.  The  spruce  and  hemlock 
screened  the  savageness  that  the  birch  and  maple  would 
have  left  uncovered  Avhen  the  summer  departed,  so 
that  the  beholder  almost  wondered  that  civilization 
429 


430  no  T  PLO  W8RAMES. 

was  content  with  the  narrow  stretch  which  it  had  con- 
quered for  itself  along  the  banks  of  the  boisterous 
torrent.  Less  than  a  mile  away,  where  the  mountain 
swept  down  into  a  broad  plateau,  not  only  overlook- 
ing the  bustling  town  but  also  commanding  an  out- 
look up  and  down  one  of  those  noble  valleys  that  the 
icy  rivers  of  the  north  cut  through  the  granite  ledges 
in  their  pathway  to  the  steaming  sea,  stood  Beechwood 
Seminary.  By  what  chance  this  glaring  three-storied 
caravansary,  with  its  green  blinds  only  breaking  the 
vast  parallelograms  of  white  Mith  which  it  faced  the 
four  cardinal  points,  came  to  be  located  in  a  spot  of 
such  surpassing  lovehness,  no  man  knoweth.  It  was 
just  far  enough  from  the  town  to  feel  its  life,  near 
enough  to  the  mountain  to  partake  of  its  solitude, 
and  high  enough  above  the  valley  to  command  all  its 
beauty.  With  true  Yankee  disregard  of  nature,  the 
original  forest  had  been  cut  away  in  front,  and  the 
grounds  of  the  institution  "adorned,"  the  catalogue 
said,  "with  rare  and  elegant  shrubbery" — some  stunted 
evergreens  and  a  few  hardy  decidua  Avhich  clung  to  the 
wind-swept  terrace,  doubtfully  enough  in  winter,  and 
leaved  and  bloomed  in  summer,  weakly  and  sadly  at- 
tempting to  remedy  the  violence  done  to  nature  in  the 
silly  conventional  attempt  at  improvement.  A  white 
picket  fence  enclosed  the  rectangled  lawn  known  as  the 
seminary  grounds.  At  the  back  of  it,  however,  nature 
had  held  her  own.  The  quaint  old  farm-house  whicli 
once  occupied  this  classic  spot  had  not  been  torn  away, 
but  rose  up  by  successive  steps  from  the  ver}^  midst 
of  the  old  orchard,  beyond  which  was  a  narrow  belt  of 
rocky  pasture  land  skirted  by  a  gray-lichened  wall  half 
hidden  under  the  brown-leaved  undergrowth,  and  above 
and  beyond  the  dark  resinous  woods  where  the  pine 
cones  and  needles  lay  thick  beneath,  and  the  light  was 
tempered  l)y  the  inlocked  foliage  above.    Thrift  had  done 


BLINDFOLD  AND  BAREFOOT.  431 

all  that  could  Avell  be  done  to  mar  the  face  of  nature, 
but  its  beauty  still  survived. 

It  was  upon  this  scene  that  Hilda  looked  the  morning- 
after  the  events  described  in  our  last  chapter.  She 
stood  at  one  of  the  back  windows  of  the  seminary  and 
gazed  upon  the  mountain  glowing  in  the  sparkling 
splendor  of  a  wintry  morning.  The  season  was  a  late 
one,  and  the  snow  had  not  yet  come,  but  glistening 
rime  rested  on  fence  and  wall,  and  transformed  the 
white  birch  limbs  into  stems  of  silver  filigree.  The 
blades  of  grass  and  the  brown  leaves  which  the  autumn 
winds  had  piled  here  and  there  were  touched  with 
points  of  light.  The  background  of  evergreens  was 
strengthened  by  the  contrast  and  enriched  by  the  sharp 
shadows  that  the  newly  risen  sun  threw  over  it. 

Hilda  was  now  almost  eighteen.  She  had  grown 
lithe  and  graceful  in  form,  and  her  girlish  impetuosity 
of  manner  had  been  tempered  by  four  years  of  training 
at  Beechwood.  Yet  in  her  great  dark  eyes  was  the 
same  unshrinking  directness,  and  her  quick  decision 
of  movement  showed  that  she  had  inherited  not  a  little 
of  her  father's  steadfastness  of  purpose.  Unfailing  health 
had  left  its  matchless  impress  on  her  ruddy  cheeks, 
and  given  to  her  eyes  a  light  that  was  almost  saucy  in 
the  revelation  that  it  made  of  buoyant  vitality.  Her 
soft,  Hquid  eyes  glowed  with  evident  enjoyment  as 
she  gazed  upon  the  bright  scene  without,  though  a  far- 
away look  in  their  depths  showed  that  her  thoughts 
were  wandering.  Yet  the  little  trace  o\  care  that  was 
in  them  as  she  glanced  out  upon  the  sunlit  mountain, 
was  so  foreign  to  her  wont  that  it  hardly  tempered 
their  vivacious  brightness.  A  rich,  warm-tinted  morn- 
ing robe  encompassed  her  shapely  figure,  and  her  wealth 
of  soft  dark  hair  was  wound  in  a  shining  coil  behind, 
save  only  a  fringe  of  rebellious  ringlets  that  escaped 
control  and  clustered  about  her  wide,  full  brow.     There 


482  HOT  PLOWSHAMES. 

was  a  careless  ease  of  manner  that  told  better  than  words 
could,  that  she  had  slept  on  roses.  Life  had  brought 
neither  trouble  nor  care.  A  cloud  had  appeared  on  its 
horizon,  but  it  was  only  a  little  one,  and  so  very  far  off 
that  she  hardly  felt  its  shadow.  There  was  something 
in  form  and  gesture  that  recalled  her  father.  Bright 
and  sunny  in  temperament,  she  had  yet  enough  of  his 
thoughtful  coolness  to  constitute  a  nature  not  easily 
moulded,  or  likely  to  be  turned  aside  from  a  purpose 
once  conceived. 

She  had  kindled  in  the  open  grate  a  fire  of  materials 
that  had  been  placed  ready  for  her  hand  the  night  before 
— snowy  bits  of  pine,  long,  slender  splints  of  creamy  ash 
and  heavy  pieces  of  maple,  with  closely-curling  cones  of 
rich  birch-bark  for  kindling.  The  flames  roared  up  the 
chimney  and  awakened  her  from  her  revery.  She  went 
and  stood  before  the  fire,  stretching  out  her  shapely 
hands  to  catch  the  grateful  warmth.  Then  she  drew 
back  her  robe,  and  held  one  slippered  foot  alter  the  other 
toward  the  flame.  After  a  few  moments  she  looked  at 
her  watch,  and  stepping  lightly  across  the  floor  to  a  half- 
open  door,  said  softly : 

"Amy!" 

She  listened  until  she  heard  the  regular  breathing  of 
a  sleeper,  then  glanced  quickly  within,  and,  with  a 
smile,  closed  the  door  and  withdrew, 

"  Heigho !"  she  said,  "I  do  believe  I  am  the  only  girl 
at  Beechwood  that  likes  to  see  the  sun  rise,  and  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  would  if  it  did  not  give  me  such  a  nice, 
quiet  time  to  write  to  Martin.  Poor  fellow  !"  she  added, 
"he  must  be  having  a  very  sad  time." 

She  drew  a  little  stand  before  the  fire,  and,  arranging 
her  writing  materials,  sat  for  a  moment  gazing  at  the 
bright  flames  as  they  leaped  up  the  chimney's  black 
throat,  ere  she  began  to  write.  This  was  her  greeting — 
her  orison  to  her  absent  lover  : 


BLINDFOLD  AND  BAREF()(n\  4:.:, 

"My  Dear  Martin  :  I  have  risen  very  early  to  write  to 
you  for  it  seems  to  me  that  you  are  anxious  and  timibled, 
though  I  cannot  tell  why  you  should  be.     Surely  your 
father's  loss  cannot  be  so  very  great  as  to  be  any  good 
cause,    and  I  cannot  think  that   his  illness  is  really  se- 
rious-in  the  sense  of  danger,  I  mean.     Of  course,  it  is 
painful  and  unpleasant,  but  you  will  be  able  to  do  for  him 
so  much  more  than  you  would  otherwise  be  allowed  to  un- 
dertake, that  you  must  really  enjoy  showing  hun  how  well 
and  willingly  you  can  serve  him.     I  wish  I  could  be  with 
you  and  I  would  come  at  once  if  Papa  had  not  enjoined 
me  to  stay  until  he  came  to  fetch  me.     Dear  Papa,  how 
thoughtful  he  has  always  been,    and  how  careful  of  my 
happiness!     But  he  will  come  soon.     I  know  he  will,  for 
I  have  dreamed  of  him  every  night   for  almost  a  week  ; 
and  three  successive  nights,  you  know,  is  a  st«;e  sign,  or 
all  the  wisdom  of  the  witches  goes  for  nothing.     You  used 
to  call  me  a  witch,  and  so  cannot  deny  me  the  powder  of 
divination.     It  is  odd,  the  repetition  of  this  dream.     Every 
time  I  see  Papa  in  the  stern  of  the  dear  old  Sea  Foam. 
The  sails  are  set;  she  is  standing  in  through  the  breakers 
along  a  narrow  channel.     The  wind  is  abeam,  brisk  bu 
not  heavy.     The  moon  is  at  the  full,  and  makes  it  as  light 
as  day.    Papa  holds  the  tiller,  and  keeps  her  head  m  the 
track  the  moon  makes  on  the  waves.     Beyond  a  narrow 
point  the  sea  is  as  smooth  as  glass,  and  the  glimmer  of 
the  moonlight  on  it  is  steady  and  full.    It  seems  as  if  the 
Sea  Foam  were  going  to  sail  right  on  into  the  moon  itselt. 
I  know  the  place  very  well.     I  have  heard  Papa  and  Un- 
thank  tell  of  it  so  often  that  I  could  not  fail  to  know  it. 
It  is  the  old  inlet-Hargrove's  Inlet-where  the  buccaneers 
used  to  go  in  and  out  in  the  old  days.     Papa  used  to  say 
that  he  was  prouder  of  having  found  that  narrow  pas- 
sage through  the  breakers,  by  which  his  rugged  kinsmen 
used  to  come  and  go  upon  their  lawless  errands  on  the 
main,    than  almost  anything   else  that   he  had  done.     It 
seems  that  he  and  Unthank  are  the  only  ones  that  know 


434  IK)  T  PL  0  W.^IIAIiEf^. 

it  now,  though  I  have  heard  him  tell  the  bearings  over  so 
often  that  I  almost  think  I  could  take  the  Sea  Foam  in 
there  myself. 

"That  is  all  there  is  of  it ;  but  every  night  I  see  the  same 
— the  brave  old  boat ;  the  shining,  seething  sea  ;  my  father 
holding  the  tiller  as  easily  as  if  he  guided  a  toy,  and 
watching  the  course  with  the  moonlight  shining  on  his 
dear  face.  I  am  sure  he  will  come  pretty  soon,  not  be- 
cause I  dream  about  him,  but  because  I  think  of  him  so 
much.  Oh,  he  is  sure  to  come  to  me,  and  then  we  will 
both  come  to  you.  I  keep  my  trunk  all  packed  up,  so 
that  there  need  not  be  any  delay,  and  twenty  times  a  day 
I  go  over  the  pretty  little  things  I  will  say  to  him  when  he 
comes  in,  when  we  start  off  and  all  along  through  the  sun- 
set hills  as  we  fly  quickly  Qji  our  way  to  dear  old  Sturm- 
hold. 

"  "Why  have  you  not  written  me  ?  It  has  been  just  an 
age  since  a  letter  came.  Oh,  I  know  !  Of  course  you  are 
so  busy  you  have  hardly  time  to  breathe.  I  don't  wonder 
that  you  have  no  time  to  write.  Then,  you  are  expecting 
me  every  day,  too.  Tell  your  father  how  sorry  I  am  for 
him,  and  kiss  your  dear  mother  for  me,  I  want  them  to 
think  as  well  of  me  as  they  can  before  I  come,  for  I  am 
sure  to  impair  their  good' opinion  by  some  prank  ere  I 
have  had  time  to  outwear  the  freshness  of  their  welcome 
home.  I  wonder  why  Papa  was  so  particular  to  charge 
me  to  stay  here  till  he  came  or  until  I  heard  from  him  ? 
He  never  did  so  before.  However,  I  shall  stay.  He  knows 
that,  and  he  will  come  here  the  very  first  thing, 

"This  is  Saturday,  and  is  a  holiday.  I  am  going  to  post 
this  after  breakfast,  and  then  go  for  a  stroll  in  the  woods. 
It  is  cool  this  morning,  but  when  the  sun  is  well  up,  the 
open  nooks  among  the  evergreens  will  be  warm  and  cosy. 
At  any  rate,  I  am  going,  just  to  be  alone,  and  smell  the 
pines.  It  is  just  the  sweetest  place  in  the  world  to  sit  and 
think — to  paint  pictures  and  dream  dreams.  Amy  says  it 
is  sombre  and  lonesome  among  the  rocks  and  under  the 


BLINDFOLD  AND  BAREFOOT.  4ar) 

trees,  but  I  do  not  see  how  it  could  be  improved — unless 
one's  lover  could  be  there,  too. 

"Well,  good-by,  dear.  Amy  has  waked,  and  come  like  a 
half-frozen  ghost  and  curled  herself  up  between  my  red 
wrapper  and  the  fire.  I  never  saw  such  a  cold,  bloodless 
creature  as  she  is.  She  has  the  most  wonderful  eyes,  and 
hair  that  is  as  black  as  jet.  She  is  very  proud  of  it,  and 
well  she  may  be,  for  the  great  shining  coils  lie  like  a  crown 
upon  her  small,  shapely  head,  and  make  her  slender  neck 
seem  slenderer  still.  Her  dark  olive  skin  has  not  a  trace 
of  flush,  and  its  dull  pallor  contrasts  so  strangely  with  the 
great  black  eyes  and  mass  of  jetty  hair  that  it  sometimes 
makes  her  look  almost  weird.  This  effect  is  no  doubt 
aided  by  the  smallness  of  her  features  and  the  thinness  of 
her  lips.  She  seems  like  a  child  almost,  and  yet  they 
call  her  '  Queenie, '  because  of  her  haughty  and  dignified 
bearing.  She  is  a  strange  compound  of  pride  and  passion 
—  strength  and  weakness.  She  is  thin-blooded,  and,  I 
fear,  cold-hearted,  yet  I  cannot  help  loving  and  pitying 
her.  We  have  always  been  great  friends,  yet  I  should  al- 
most doubt  that  she  had  any  real  affection  for  me  were  it 
not  for  her  terrible  jealousy  of  you.  It  is  funny  that  my 
best  friend  should  be  my  lover's  worst  enemy.  Of  course, 
I  count  it  no  hardship  to  choose  between  you ;  though  it 
does  make  me  feel  very  sad  to  think  that  I  shall  be  with 
her  only  a  few  months  more,  for  I  am  really  the  only 
friend  she  has,  and  I  am  afraid  she  is  not  likely  to  find 
new  ones.  Poor  girl !  I  cannot  but  think  how  much  hap- 
pier is  my  lot  than  hers.  Good-by.  She  will  not  let  me 
write  any  more,  and  I  do  not  think  I  ought  to  write  such 
long  letters,  when  I  do  not  get  even  a  line  in  reply.  Re- 
member me  to  the  servants,  and  think  of  me  often  when 
you  visit  dear  old  Sturmhold.  How  I  long  to  be  there 
with  you— yours  always  and  altogether.  Hilda." 

For  more  than  four  years  the  cosy  corner  room,  from 
one  window  of  which  she  looked  down  the  river,  and 
from  the  other  out  upon  the  mountain,  had  been  Hilda's 


436  HO  T  PL  0  WSHARE8. 

habitation  during  the  term-time  at  Beechwood.  It 
was  on  the  second  floor,  opened  on  the  roof  of  the 
old  farm-house,  and  had  been  chosen  by  her  because 
the  view  reminded  her  of  home,  she  said.  Her  father 
had  stipulated  that  she  should  not  be  removed  from  this 
room,  nor  on  any  account  debarred  from  the  privilege  of 
wandering  at  will  on  Saturdays  in  woods  and  fields,  on 
foot  or  on  horseback,  wheresoever  she  would.  This 
privilege  had  been  accorded  with  hesitation ;  but  Hilda 
had  soon  become  such  a  prime  favorite,  not  only  with 
the  principal  and  teachers,  but  also  with  her  mates, 
that  it  soon  ceased  to  attract  attention,  the  more  es- 
pecially as  it  came  to  be  applied  to  many  of  the 
other  scholars  as  well.  The  room  which  opened  off 
from  Hilda's  had  been  occupied  for  the  same  time  by 
Amy  Hargrove.  Between  these  a  very  singular  friend- 
ship had  arisen.  While  both  were  brunettes,  the  dull 
pallidness  of  Amy's  complexion  was  in  strong  contrast 
with  the  ruddy  bloom  that  tinged  the  cheeks  of  Hilda. 
Both  were  considered  beauties — one  bright  and  cheer- 
ful, and  the  other  cold  and  haughty.  The  one  had 
many  friends,  the  other  few.  They  were  alike  in  but 
one  thing — they  were  both  excellent  scholars,  and  rivals 
for  the  honors  of  their  class.  Everybody  wondered  at 
their  intimacy.  They  seemed  to  have  so  little  in  com- 
mon, and  yet  they  were  almost  inseparable.  The  fact 
was  that  their  friendship  was  based  as  much  upon  the 
accident  of  contrasting  physical  conditions  as  anything 
else.  Hilda's  abounding  vitality  seemed  almost  a  ne- 
cessity to  the  meagre,  thin-blooded  little  creature  whom 
she  took  under  her  charge  and  petted  and  cared  for 
almost  like  a  child.  She  laughed  at  her  whimsicalities, 
submitted  to  her  pretensions,  and  when  it  was  neces- 
sary, disregarded  her  fantasies.  She  had  none  of  that 
self-consciousness  that  made  her  jealous  of  any  of  the 
really  brilliant  parts  of  her  friend.     She  pitied  her  from 


BLINDFOLD  AND  BAREFOOT.  437 

her  heart ;  for,  despite  her  arrogance  and  assumption, 
she  was  alone  in  the  world.  She  had  no  near  kindred, 
and  the  one  vexation  of  her  life  was  the  fact  that 
her  guardian  paid  no  heed  to  her  existence  save  in 
providing  amply  for  her  comfort.  She,  too,  had  been 
secured  special  privileges  at  Beechwood.  Her  pony  was 
not  inferior  to  Hilda's ;  but  she  loved  far  better  to  have 
the  two  harnessed  together  and  driven  through  shady 
lanes  by  another,  than  to  mount  and  ride,  as  Hilda  de- 
lighted to  do,  over  the  steep  mountain  roads.  Despite 
these  dissimilarities,  there  was  rarely  any  difference  be- 
tween the  friends.  The  one  was  happy  to  subserve  the 
other's  pleasure;  the  other  was  careful  not  to  try  her 
good  nature  too  far.  It  was  the  everlasting  puzzle  of 
the  strong  and  the  weak;  the  broad  and  the  narrow; 
the  great  and  the  small.  Their  natures  were  comple- 
mentary, and  for  that  very  reason  perhaps  had  so  long 
harmonized. 

The  day  of  which  we  write  was  one  of  the  rare  occa- 
sions when  the  occupants  of  the  two  adjoining  rooms 
did  not  agree.  Ever  since  Hilda's  engagement  to  Mar- 
tin, Amy  had  been  jealous  of  the  young  man's  share 
in  her  companion's  affection.  It  always  put  her  in  a 
pet  to  have  Hilda  write  to  him,  and  she  spared  no  op- 
portunity of  manifesting,  as  far  as  she  dared,  her  dis- 
approval. On  this  day  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that 
Hilda  must  drive  with  her  to  a  town  some  miles  down 
the  river,  to  visit  a  friend  whom  she  had  met  the  sum- 
mer before.  As  we  have  seen,  this  did  not  comport 
with  Hilda's  plans,  and  the  result  was  that  before  the 
wayward  httle  creature  had  dressed  for  the  day  she  had 
worked  herself  into  a  fever  of  fretfulness.  Hilda  laughed 
at  her  angry  expostulation,  and  when  she  stamped  her 
little  foot  in  rage,  reminded  her  of  a  sheep  at  Sturm- 
hold  which  was  addicted  to  the  same  impatient  gesture. 
The  result  was  that  the  fiery  little  queen  retired  to  her 


438  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

own  room,  closed  and  locked  the  door  between,  and 
when  the  bell  for  breakfast  rang  the  excuse  of  a  raging- 
headache  which  she  gave  for  non-attendance  Avas  by 
no  means  without  foundation.  She  was  prostrated  by 
that  curse  of  natures  in  which  the  nervous  far  predomi- 
nates over  the  physical — a  sick-headache.  Her  room  was 
darkened,  and  she  became  a  solitary  prisoner  for  the 
nonce.  Hilda,  reproaching  herself  for  her  refusal  to 
comply  with  her  friend's  wishes,  would  have  become 
her  nurse,  but  the  spoiled  creature  would  not  permit 
her  to  even  enter  the  room. 

She,  therefore,  rode  into  the  town  to  post  her  letter, 
meeting  the  country  mail  upon  the  way,  and  wondering 
whether  it  contained  any  messages  from  her  loved 
ones.  As  she  passed  along  the  narrow  busy  streets 
that  led  to  the  post-office  she  found  herself  curiously 
watched  by  those  she  met.  The  postmaster,  a  fussy, 
important  man  with  spectacles  and  thin  gray  hair — 
a  deacon  in  the  church  and  one  of  the  social  and  re- 
ligious lights  of  the  little  town  —  drew  her  into  con- 
versation as  she  handed  in  her  letter,  and,  on  some 
artful  pretext,  kept  her  waiting  while  more  than  one  of 
the  townspeople  came  in  and  regarded  her  with  a 
strange  eagerness.  Dropping  into  a  store  to  make  some 
slight  purchases  she  noted  the  same  unusual  watch- 
fulness on  the  part  of  all.  There  was  some  whispered 
conversation  between  the  proprietor  and  a  few  men  who 
stood  near  the  stove,  accompanied  by  meaning  glances 
in  her  direction.  She  caught  the  clerk  who  waited  on 
her  telegraphing  with  his  eyes,  evidently  in  response  to 
their  looks  of  inquiry.  The  hot  blood  rushed  to  her 
face  as  she  became  conscious  that  she  was  the  object 
of  observation  and  remark.  Thinking  there  might  be 
some  disarrangement  of  her  attire  which  was  attract- 
ing attention,  she  turned  full  upon  the  little  knot  at 
the  stove,  with  an  angry  light  in  her  eyes,  ?i,ii^  thea 


BLINDFOLD  AND  BAEEFOOT.  -130 

deliberately  Avalked  past  them  to  a  mirror  which  hung 
against  the  wall  at  the  back  of  the  store.  Save  her 
flushed  face  and  flashing  eyes  the  glass  showed  noth- 
ing unusual  in  her  appearance,  and  the  picture  that 
was  flashed  back  at  her  was  certainly  not  one  that  need 
object  to  scrutiny.  She  was  used  to  admiration.  She 
had  i-eceived  it  all  her  life.  Her  father  had  petted  her 
and  praised  her  beauty  always,  and  every  one  who  came 
under  his  rooftree  soon  found  that  the  shortest  path 
to  his  approval  was  unstinted  praise  of  his  daughter. 
Since  she  had  been  at  Beechwood  she  had  been  the 
belle  of  the  little  town.  Everybody  in  it  knew  her.  Her 
favor  had  been  a  matter  of  competition  with  several  of 
the  young  men,  even  after  it  was  generally  understood 
that  she  was  already  engaged.  She  was  probably  better 
knoAvn  through  the  country  by  her  long  Avalks  and  rides 
than  any  other  girl  at  Beechwood.  She  knew  admira- 
tion, and  rather  liked  it.  But  this  was  not  admiration. 
What  could  it  be  ? 

As  she  left  the  store  she  encountered  a  knot  of  men 
on  the  sidewalk.  They  tried  to  seem  not  to  be  noticing 
her.  She  knew  them.  They  were  a  lawyer,  a  doctor,  an 
editor  and  the  son  of  a  wealthy  mill-owner.  As  she 
went  toward  her  horse,  which  she  had  hitched  near  the 
post-ofiice,  they  all  gazed  after  her,  and  at  once  en- 
gaged in  an  animated  conversation.  Could  they  be 
talking  of  her  ?  For  the  first  time,  she  was  allowed  to 
lead  her  horse  up  to  the  platform  that  ran  in  front  of  one 
of  the  stores,  and  mount  without  aid.  It  was  no  inconve- 
nience. She  had  as  soon  do  it  as  not.  She  was  so  expert 
a  horsewoman  that  only  the  shghtest  advantage  of  sur- 
face was  needed  to  enable  her  to  leap  into  the  saddle. 
She  did  not  care  about  the  attention,  either.  She  was 
too  sincere  by  nature  to  desire  to  be  a  flirt.  She  loved 
Martin  too  earnestly  to  even  seem  to  favor  another.  She 
liked  attention  ;  she  desired  to  please,  and  was  glad  to 


440  H02   PLOWSHARES. 

be  thought  beautiful  and  attractive.  It  gave  her  father 
pleasure.  She  was  glad  to  be  dowered  Avith  beauty  for 
Martin's  sake,  too.  Besides  that,  she  enjoyed  seeing 
others  happy,  and  was  glad  to  be  the  cause  of  their  hap- 
piness. Yet  she  had  never  sought  such  attention,  and 
would  not  have  missed  it  had  it  not  been  universally 
accorded  up  to  that  time.  Almost  every  week  for  four 
years,  saving  the  vacations,  she  had  ridden  at  least 
once  into  the  town,  and  never  in  all  that  time  had  she 
been  without  a  knight  to  offer  his  hand  for  her  foot 
when  she  mounted  to  ride  aAvay.  Indeed,  it  had  been 
an  honor  for  which  there  had  more  than  once  been 
sharp  competition.  Now  she  mounted  alone.  Yet  a 
half  a  dozen  familiar  faces  were  at  the  windows  of  the 
shops  peering  out  at  hef.  Not  one  of  the  men  who 
stood  scarceh'  ten  steps  away  had  ever  allowed  her  to 
do  so  before.  The  young  mill-owner  seemed  quite  to 
have  forgotten  her  existence.  Yet  he  had  lately  been  so 
pronounced  in  his  attentions  that  she  had  wondered  if 
it  were  not  her  duty  to  tell  him  of  her  relations  with 
Martin,  so  that  he  need  have  no  excuse  for  continuing 
them.  What  could  be  the  matter?  There  must  be 
something  wrong  with  her  attire.  She  looked  herself 
over  nervously,  as  well  as  she  could.  Lifted  her  habit 
to  see  if  by  chance  it  failed  to  fall  properly.  Wondered 
if  a  ghmpse  of  her  skirt  had  shown  beneath  its  border. 
Her  face  burned  with  shame  at  the  thought.  She  leaned 
forward  in  the  saddle  and  breathed  freer  when  she  found 
that  w^as  not  the  cause.     Yet  what  could  it  be  ? 

She  turned  her  horse's  head,  and,  with  a  sharp  stroke, 
started  on  a  swift  gallop  for  the  seminary. 

Hardly  had  she  gone  a  hundred  yards  when  she  saw 
the  good  pastor  of  the  village  church  beckoning  to  her 
and  calling  after  her.  She  reined  in  her  horse  and  he 
came  out  to  her  — into  the  middle  oi  the  street  —  the 
good  man  who  had  only  bowed  and  smiled  as  she  had 


BLINDFOLD  AND  BAREFOOT.  441 

ridden    past    him  hitherto.      There    is   trouble    in   his 
face,  but  he  is  kind— very  kind,  indeed.      She  almost 
weeps  as  he  takes  her  hand,  raising  his  hat  with  scrupu- 
lous poUteness,  and  looking  anxiously  into  her  face  as  he 
asks  many  questions,  all  very  kindly  and  gently,  of  her 
father,  of  the  fire  at  Skendoah,  and  all  the  other  things 
that  bear  on  her  life.     It  is  very  strange   she   thinks. 
But  meantime  he  talks  on.     What  a  sturdy,  resolute 
face  he  has  !    As  he  talks,  he  rests  his  arm  over  the 
horse's  neck.     Is  the  whole  town  watching  them  ?    She 
thinks  so.     He  does  not  see  it,  however.     He  is  not  re- 
proving her  for  her  gayety,  either,  as  he  has  done  some- 
times,  but  is  telling  her  how  trials   should  be  borne. 
What  can  he  mean?    And  when  he  has  finished  and 
shaken  her  hand  once  more,  and  she  is  about  to  start, 
he  turns  again  and  enjoins  upon  her  anew  to  come  to  him 
if  she  ever  needs  a  friend.     "Come  right  to  my  house, 
my  dear,"  he  says,  with  his  honest  face  aglow,  "at  any 
time  ot  night  or  day.     You  will  always  be  welcome- 
just  as  welcome  as  if  it  were  your  home.     Kemember, 
now."    What  a  strange  injunction,  and  how  solenmly 
yet  kindly  given!    What  an  odd   look  of  inquiry  and 
embarrassment  was  in  his  eyes,  too !    He  really  seemed 
oppressed  with  sympathy  for  her.     Yet  she  needed  none. 
Ah,  could  it  be  ?    Her  father— had  anything  happened 
to  him  ?   Her  heart  stood  still  with  terror  as  the  thought 
struck  her.     But  no,  it  could  not  be.     It  was  not  sorrow 
that  she  had  seen  in  the  eyes  that  stared  at  her.     Sym- 
pathy is  sweet  and  tender  and  kind.     This  Avas  hard  and 
furtive  and  mean.     It  was  a  low,  jeering,  hateful  stare, 
that  meant— oh,  what  did  it  mean  '?    Anger  and  pride 
and  shame  repeated  again  and  again  the  futile  question. 
Her  eyes  flashed ;  her  face  flushed  and  paled  by  turns  ; 
her  hands  clutched  the  reins  nervously,  and  she  bit  her 
nether  lip  until  the  blood  started  forth  in  her  vexation. 


442  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

Then  she  gave  her  horse  the  rein  and  dashed  over  the 
frozen  road  to  the  seminary. 

Had  the  world  gone  mad  ?  From  ever}^  window  the 
faces  of  her  schoolmates  Avere  peering  forth  with  the 
same  curious  expression.  Some  were  lit  with  furtive 
sympathy,  and  some  bore  the  same  sinister  leer  she 
had  met  in  the  town.  The  very  servant  who  took  her 
horse  as  she  dismounted  scanned  her  face  and  figure 
curiously  as  he  did  so.  She  ran  up  the  steps  and  en- 
tered the  hall.  A  dozen  expectant  faces  were  turned 
upon  her  with  the  same  indefinable,  searching  glance. 
She  rushed  up  the  stairway  and  flew  to  her  room.  She 
saw  them  peeping  at  her  from  the  rooms,  and  was  con- 
scious of  opened  doors  and  watchful  observers  after  she 
had  passed.  Was  she  bewitched  ?  Was  there  any  strange 
thing  in  her  appearance — any  horrible  gaucherie  of  dress 
or  manner — that  caused  her  to  be  observed  and  talked  of 
in  such  an  unaccountable  way  V  Had  she  been  trans- 
formed in  a  day  ? 

She  rushed  to  her  room  and  ran  at  once  to  the  mirror 
to  find,  if  she  could,  a  clew  to  the  mystery.  Her  attire 
was  faultless.  She  caught  a  hand-glass  from  the  drawer, 
and  turning  from  the  mirror  inspected  her  di-ess  from 
top  to  toe.  She  walked  away  from  the  glass ;  she  turned 
one  side  and  then  the  other ;  raised  one  arm  and  then 
the  other;  lifted  her  trailing  habit,  inspected  even  her 
shoes — but  could  see  nothing  that  should  cause  remark. 
Amy  was  passing  back  and  forth  in  the  room.  B}'  a 
side  glance  in  the  mirror  she  detected  on  her  face  the 
same  speculative  look  she  had  seen  on  others ;  only  in 
her  case  it  was  linked  with  something  she  had  not 
seen  elsewhere.  There  was  a  cold,  hard  look — anger, 
almost  disgust,  upon  her  proud,  regular  features.  Her 
thin  lips  were  surely  half  parted  in  a  sneer.  Hilda 
dropped  the  glass  and  sprang  toward  her  friend.  Amy 
drew   back  and  raised    her  hands,  as   if  to  avoid  her 


BLINDFOLD  AND  BAREFOOT.  44:^. 

touch.  Hilda  noticed  that  she  held  some  books  and 
trifles  of  her  OAvn  that  in  their  community  of  use  had 
been  usually  kept  in  this  room  rather  than  her  own. 
She  glanced  around  and  saw  that  everything  belonging 
to  her  companion  had  been  removed — books,  pictures, 
bits  of  needlework,  trinkets  which  they  had  hung  upon 
the  walls  or  laid  upon  the  tables,  in  girlish  attempts  at 
decoration.  On  the  bed  in  careless  confusion  was  heaped 
a  mass  of  like  trifles  belonging  to  herself,  which  had 
in  the  same  manner  found  lodgment  in  Amy's  room. 
Slowly  it  dawned  upon  her.  Amy  had  returned  her 
trinkets  and  was  taking  away  her  own.  Her  amaze- 
ment was  increased  a  thousandfold.  She  grew  faint 
and  dizzy  with  mysterious  apprehension.  Was  the  world 
slipping  from  beneath  her  feet?  Was  mankind  flying 
from  her  presence  ?  Did  she  bear  a  leper  spot  that  all 
should  shun  and  jeer  or  hate  ?  She  could  not  think — 
only  feel  and  fear  and  dread.  Every  nerve  seemed 
burdened  with  indefinable  agony.  The  blood  tingled  in 
every  vein.  Her  heart  thrilled  with  pain.  Her  head 
was  a  crucible  of  fire.  She  must,  she  would  know  what 
it  meant. 

"'Oh,  Amy,  Amy  !"  she  said  in  the  shrill,  wiry  tones 
which  only  intensest  agony  can  give,  "what  is  it?  Do 
tell  me  what  makes  you  look  at  me  so  strangely — and 
the  others — the  girls — everybody  ?" 

Amy  pointed  coldly  to  the  glass,  her  hps  now  parted 
in  an  unmistakable  sneer,  showing  the  small  white  teeth 
close  shut  beneath  them,  while  her  eyes  flashed  with 
angry  fire. 

Hilda  shot  one  more  glance  of  inquiry  at  the  mirror. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  cried  in  despair.  "  Do  tell  me  !  I 
can  see  nothing." 

"Yet  it  is  very  plain  to  others." 

Again  Hilda  looked, 

"  Oh,  what  is  it  ?    Please  tell  me  !    Do  you  not  see 


444  HOI  PLOWSHARES. 

you  are  killing  me  ?  Why  does  everybody  shun  me  to- 
day ?" 

"Because  they  have  only  just  learned  the  truth,  I 
suppose,"  said  the  other  coldly. 

"The  truth!  What  do  you  mean?"  The  question 
was  asked  in  open-mouthed  wonder.  "What  have  you 
learned — what  has  anybody  learned,  that  they  did  not 
know  before  ?" 

"Really  one  would  think  you  did  not  know  1"  said 
Amy  with  a  mocking  laugh,  as  she  entered  her  own 
room. 

Hilda  sprang  forward. 

"  Amy,  speak  !     What  is  it  ?    I  know  nothing  !" 

She  was  entering  her  classmate's  room,  as  she  spoke. 
Amy  turned  upon  her  as  she  reached  the  threshold  and 
pushed  her  violently  back. 

"  Stand  back  !"  she  cried.  "  Stand  back  !  Do  not  dare 
to  come  into  my  room  !  Do  not  touch  me  !  The  very 
sight  of  you  is  contamination  !" 

"  Oh,  Amy — Amy !"  wailed  the  poor  girl.  "What  do 
you  mean?  What  has  happened?  Why  are  you  so 
angry  with  me?" 

"Why?"  shrieked  the  friend,  now  transformed  into 
a  demon  of  hate.  "Why?  Because  I  do  not  choose 
to  associate  with  such  as  you  !  Because  I  am  a  lady  ! 
Because  you  have  imposed  upon  and  outraged  us  !  Be- 
cause the  man  you  call  your  father — " 

"  Stop,  Amy  Hargrove  !"  The  frenzied  girl  was  trans- 
formed into  an  angry  goddess  in  an  instant.  "Stop!" 
she  repeated  and  strode  toward  the  venomous  little  figure 
with  an  air  of  menace  that  made  it  shrink  away  in  fear. 
"  Say  what  you  please  of  me,  but  do  not  dare  to  utter  one 
word  against  my  father." 

"  Your  father  ?"  sneered  Amy,  still  retreating. 

"  Yes,  my  father  I  Is  it  anything  strange  that  I  should 
refuse  to  hear  my  father  defamed  ?" 


BLINDFOLD  AND  BAREFOOT.  445 

"Meaning,  I  suppose,  Captain  Hargrove  !"  lisped  the 
white-faced  vixen,  while  her  eyes  gleamed  like  burning 
coals  with  hate. 

"  Of  course.  You  know  my  father.  Everybody  knows 
him  !" — wonderingly,  but  yet  defiantly. 

"  Everybody  thought  they  knew  him,"  replied  the  other 
with  a  shrug.     "  Now  they  know  better." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Hilda,  with  a  surprised,  hysteri- 
cal laugh.  "Are  you  crazy.  Amy  ?  Pray,  who  is  my 
father,  then  ?" 

"  Ah,  indeed  !  That  is  not  important  now.  Your 
mother  is  known  !"  meaningly. 

"My  mother?" 

"  Oh,  yes  !  Your  mother  !  Don't  try  to  put  on  that 
look  of  innocence.  The  game  is  played  out.  We  know 
who  your  mother  was — or  rather  what  she  was  ?" 

"What  she  was  ?  My  mother  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?" 
cried  Hilda,  her  hands  clasped  before  her  and  her  voice 
Quivering  Avith  wonder  and  dread. 

"What  do  I  mean  ?  I  mean  that  we  know  now  that 
your  mother  was  a  slave — George  Eighmie's  negro  wife  !" 

There  was  a  shriek — a  fall !  Amy  sprang  quickly  for- 
Avard,  closed  and  locked  the  door,  braced  herself  against 
it,  and  stood  shivering  and  pallid,  with  chattering  teeth 
and  eyes  upturned  in  terror.  Did  she  fear  something 
that  lay  inanimate  and  still  upon  the  other  side,  which 
the  thin  panels  hid  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

BORN   OF   THE   SPIRIT. 

Beechwood  Seminary  had  a  wide  reputation.  It 
not  only  aflbrded  exceptionally  fine  advantages  for  the 
education  of  young  ladies,  but  it  was  eminentl}'  respect- 
able. To  have  been  admitted  to  its  classes  was  of  itself 
a  certificate  of  social  rank.  To  have  graduated  from 
Beechwood  was  to  hold  a  master-key  to  good  society 
everywhere  in  the  land.  Twenty  years  had  passed  since 
the  Misses  Hunniwell  began  with  three  boarders,  whom 
they  taught  in  the  parlor  of  their  father's  house,  upon 
the  front  of  which  the  seminary  building  proper  now 
abutted.  Their  father  had  been  a  merchant  who  had 
saved  from  ruin,  in  the  "crash"  of  '37,  only  this  old 
homestead  and  the  little  hill-side  farm,  whose  chief  value 
was  that  it  furnished  firewood  and  shelter.  His  daughters 
had  been  well  educated,  and  Avere  too  proud  to  descend 
from  their  former  high  social  position  to  any  menial 
avocation,  and  too  "capable,"  as  the  saying  of  that 
region  is,  to  be  dependent  upon  others.  Their  mother 
was  dead.  So  between  them  they  managed  the  house- 
hold and  the  scholars,  and  managed  both  so  well  that 
their  fame  soon  came  to  the  ears  of  others  —  parents 
and  pupils. 

Then  the  father  died.  Their  pupils  filled  the  house, 
and  some  even  obtained  board  at  the  neighbors'.  They 
builded  a  separate  school-room  ;  it  was  soon  more  than 
full.  Then  a  small  legacy  fell  to  them.  They  bor- 
rowed what  was  really  a  large  sum  in  those  times,  and 
erected  the  comfortable  structure  that  now  bore  the 
name    of   Beechwood   Seminary.     In  a   few   3'ears   the 


BORN  OF  THE  SPIRIT.  447 

debt  was  extinguished.  One  of  the  sisters  died,  and 
the  other  wrought  with  still  gi-eater  pride  and  devo- 
tion because  of  her  memory.  It  was  a  high-priced  and 
high-toned  institution;  but  it  was  a  thoroughly  good 
one.  Its  founders  contemplated  their  own  advantage, 
yet  they  were  strictly  honest,  and  would  have  scorned 
to  take  pay  for  anything  without  giving  a  fair  equivalent 
for  it.  They  were,  above  all  things  else,  ladies.  They 
were  descended  from  one  of  those  old  families  of  the 
colony  whom  the  age  of  vulgar  shops  and  factories 
overtook  and  drove  in  upon  themselves.  They  were 
types  of  that  aristocracy  which  somehow  or  other  grew 
up  and  stood,  proud  and  cold  and  self-respecting,  among 
the  barren  hills  which  mechanic  art  invaded  with  its 
army  of  hand-workers — men  and  women — whose  labor 
was  to  build  the  foundations  of  the  aristocracy  of  to-day. 
The  Hunniwells  were  an  old  family.  Their  blood  was 
very  clear  and  very  blue.  The  chilly  purity  of  that 
creed  whose  great  expounder  had  once  dwelt  almost  in 
sight  of  the  seminary,  had  left  its  impress  on  their 
hearts.  To  "be  a  lady  forever'''  was  a  Scriptural  in- 
junction that  followed  hard  upon  the  decalogue  in  their 
minds.  To  be  in  all  things  "under  the  breath  of  good 
repute"  was  a  prime  pre-requisite  to  favor  with  them. 
They  pitied  the  poor.  They  would  cheerfully  serve  the 
humblest.  Suffering  never  cried  to  them  in  vain.  Con- 
science and  sincerity  were  to  be  seen  in  their  soft, 
refined,  yet  shai-ply  cut  faces,  as  clearly  as  the  blue 
veins  that  showed  through  the  silky  skin.  The  calm 
gray  eyes  were  full  and  strong,  but  they  were  kind 
and,  in  a  way,  tender.  They  were  interested  in  their 
neighbors  of  the  busy  borough  that  had  grown  up  so  near 
the  old  farmhouse  by  them.  They  patronized  the  pub- 
lic schools  which  nestled  about  among  the  hills.  Rarely 
did  one  of  these  close  a  term  that  one  of  the  sisters 
with  a  few  of  their  pupils  did  not  honor  the  closing  day 


448  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

with  their  presence.  The  white  slender  fingers  pointed 
out  errors  on  the  blackboard  or  the  slate.  The  silky 
brown  curls  that  framed  the  calm,  refined  faces  and 
softened  their  serene  severity,  rose  and  fell  with  the 
little  nods  of  approval  which  they  gave  for  the  encour- 
agement of  merit.  Their  aristocracj^  was  not  one  of 
scorn  or  self-assertion,  but  of  infinite  self-respect.  They 
did  not  like  new  things  or  take  kindly  to  new  ideas. 
The  proprieties  of  the  olden  time  ruled  their  convic- 
tions. They  kept  aloof  from  "isms"  that  smacked  of 
question  of  the  old  doctrines.  As  the  delegated  guard- 
ians of  the  pupils  intrusted  to  their  charge,  they  held 
it  a  sacred  doctrine  to  see  that  these  imbibed,  while 
under  their  care,  no  doubtful  dogma.  They  were  not 
ascetics.  They  did  not  shut  their  pupils  away  from 
the  society  that  surrounded  them,  but  required  them 
to  attend  church  upon  the  Sabbath,  encouraged  them 
to  attend  the  prayer-meetings,  and  with  the  parents' 
assent  allowed  them  sometimes  to  attend  social  gath- 
erings and  to  receive,  with  scarcely  a  show  of  restraint, 
the  visits  of  the  young  men  of  the  neighborhood  on 
certain  specified  evenings.  The  Misses  Hunniwell  were 
ladies  and  had  no  young  ladies  at  their  school  whom 
they  could  not  trust.  So,  too,  they  wei'e  not  unreason- 
ably severe  in  regard  to  girlish  escapades,  recognizing 
that  young  life  must  break  from  its  leading-strings  now 
and  then.  Their  picnics,  "recreation  evenings"  and 
holidays  were  festal  occasions  full  of  sweet  innocent 
pleasure,  not  only  to  their  pupils  but  to  the  favored 
youths  who  were  deemed  worthy  of  admission  to  this 
hill-side  Eden. 

Since  the  death  of  the  elder  sister,  and  especiall}- 
since  the  coming  of  Hilda  and  Amy,  even  the  former 
seemingly  light  discipline  had  been  somewhat  relaxed. 
Hilda,  especially,  had  become  a  prime  favorite,  de- 
spite   her   apparent    disregard  of   some  of   the    minor 


BORN  OF  THE  SPIRIT.  449 

proprieties.  Much  was  forgiven,  because  of  the  free, 
untrammeled  hfe  of  Sturmhold.  The  privileges  wliich 
Captain  Hargrove  liacl  demanded  as  tlie  condition  of 
her  coming  had  been  granted  with  some  rehictance. 
Perhaps  no  man  of  less  evident  gentility — certainh' 
no  man  whose  Southern  birth  and  lineage  did  not 
entitle  him  to  ask  such  a  thing  as  a  concession  to  the 
home  life  and  custom  of  his  daughter — could  have  ol)- 
tained  the  consent  of  the  lady  principal  of  Beechwood 
to  the  keeping  of  a  pony  for  his  daughter's  use.  It  was 
with  no  little  misgiving  that  it  was  granted.  After  a 
time  it  seemed  to  prove  so  innocent  a  pleasure,  and  Hil- 
da's abounding  health  as  well  as  her  frank  good  nature, 
cheerful  application  and  marked  superiority  in  her  studies 
had  so  thoroughly  overcome  the  good  lady's  fears,  that 
more  than  one  sleek  pet  stood  in  the  stable  of  the  insti- 
tution. She  was  not  at  f^ll  averse  to  the  added  income, 
though  no  temptation  of  gain  could  have  induced  her  to 
lower,  in  the  least  degree,  tlie  standard  of  excellence  or 
the  tone  of  exclusiveness  and  propriety  which  clung 
around  this  pride  of  her  lonely  life.  Since  these  innova- 
tions had  come  she  had  even  allowed  herself  a  pleasant 
luxury,  which  she  had  never  before  dreamed  of  indulging. 
Having  now  to  keep  an  assistant  for  the  man-of-all- 
work,  who  spaded  the  garden,  milked  the  cows,  pre- 
pared the  wood  and  did  the  purveying  for  the  institu- 
tion, she  had  set  up  her  carriage  in  a  modest  way, 
instead  of  relying  on  the  village  livery  when  she  needed 
a  vehicle  for  any  purpose.  So  it  happened  that  Beech- 
wood  had  come  to  be  regarded  as  not  only  a  respect- 
able and  exclusive  institution,  but  even  in  a  sense  a 
luxurious  one.  All  this  added  to  its  prosperity  and 
popvilarity  until  the  number  of  pupils  who  were  refused 
admission,  year  by  year,  almost  equaled  the  number 
accepted. 

Yet  let  it  not  ho.  supposed  that  there  was  any  lack  of 


450  HO  T  PL  0  WSIIARES. 

wholesome  discipline  at  Beeehwood.  Woe  to  the  j'oung 
lady  who  transgressed  in  any  really  important  featurx' 
its  regulations.  She  found  that  beneath  the  gentle  na- 
ture of  the  principal  there  was  a  will  of  iron.  Conceal- 
ment of  any  fault  or  evasion  of  any  duty  was  certain  to 
receive  merited  reproof  and  humiliation.  Falsehood  in 
word  or  act  was  the  most  heinous  sin.  The  unworthy, 
incorrigible  or  persistently  neglectful  were  Aveeded  out 
with  the  most  summary  firmness.  She  was  tender  in 
her  care  but  inflexible  in  her  requirements.  Among  the 
things  most  rigidly  prohibited  was  all  mention  of  the 
question  which  had  grown  to  be  the  absorbing  topic 
of  the  day.  Holding  herself  to  be  the  parent  pro  teiii- 
pore  of  her  pupils,  she  considered  it  a  sacred  duty  to 
see  to  it  that  the  home  teachings  of  each  were  not  per- 
verted while  under  her  care.  Having  pupils  from  the 
South,  as  well  as  the  North,  she  counted  it  needful, 
both  for  her  own  interest  and  as  a  trustee  of  their  inte- 
rests, not  only  that  discussion  and  dissension  should  be 
avoided,  but  that  ideas  which  might  be  repugnant  to 
the  respective  parents  should  not  be  imbibed  by  them 
while  under  her  control.  So  while  the  life  about  her 
became  a  seething  mass  of  heated  controversy,  Beech- 
wood  felt  none  of  its  influence.  To  this  fact  Miss 
Hunniwell  owed  no  little  loss  of  prestige  among  the 
people  of  the  town.  She  was  said  to  be  bitterly  pro- 
slavery  in  her  views,  and  the  seminary  was  regarded 
by  some  of  the  most  rancorous  of  the  abolition  fanatics 
as  a  nursery  of  the  most  pestiferous  doctrines. 

This  opposition  naturally  inclined  this  self-reliant  wo- 
man to  a  more  positive  and  pronounced  hostility  to  that 
sentiment  which  had  gradually  worked  its  way  into 
so  many  of  the  institutions  of  the  North.  So,  when  a 
family  of  colored  children  found  their  way  into  the  school- 
house  of  the  little  village,  she  ceased  her  customary  visits 
there,  and  so  far  ovei'stepped  her  own  rule  as  not  only 


BORN  OF  THE  HPIRIT.  451 

to  speak  somewhat  bitterly  in  reference  to  it  in  private 
conversation,  but  also  to  refer  to  it  in  her  customary 
Wednesday  afternoon  talks  to  her  pupils.  She  did  not 
like  slavery.  She  even  regretted  its  existence,  and  was 
truly  sorry  for  the  slave's  hard  fate.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  she  did  not  like  the  negro.  She  thought  he  had 
a  right  to  the  proceeds  of  his  own  labor — to  be  a  man 
and  have  a  home — but  that  did  not  make  him  white, 
or  entitle  him  to  be  the  equal  of  the  white  man.  She 
gave  liberally  to  the  Colonization  Society,  and  hoped 
the  day  would  come — indeed,  she  prayed  for  it  daily — 
when  Christianized  slaves  would  be  reshipped  to  Africa 
by  the  million  as  missionaries,  who  should  convert  their 
barbarian  kinsmen  to  Christianity.  She  took  no  note  of 
probability  or  possibility.  She  never  stopped  to  con- 
sider of  their  fitness,  and  it  did  not  once  occur  to  her 
that  the  untaught  slave  was,  at  best,  a  queer  emissary 
to  bear  the  message  of  Christian  freedom  to  the  conti- 
nent whence  Christian  hands  had  ravished  slaves  for 
centuries  to  minister  to  Christian  greed.  Her  only  feel- 
ing was  that  they  ought  not  to  have  been  taken  from 
thence,  and,  being  here,  ought  to  be  gotten  rid  of  as 
soon  as  possible.  There  were  very  many  who  sympa- 
thized with  these  views,  but  in  the  region  where  she 
dwelt  the  antipathy  to  slavery  as  an  act  of  personal  in- 
justice to  the  slave  was  fast  overcoming  the  antipathy 
of  race  and  color. 

It  was  to  this  community  and  to  this  woman  that  the 
report  had  come,  so  well  supported  that  none  could 
doubt,  that  a  favorite  pupil  of  this  exclusive  institution 
was  a  threefold  social  leper— illegitimate,  the  daughter 
of  a  slave  —  perhaps  a  slave  herself — and  cursed  with 
that  befouling  taint,  the  blood  of  Africa.  The  metro- 
politan journals  had  brought  the  news,  now  fully  con- 
firmed, of  the  death  of  Captain  Hargrove  in  the  attempt 
to  remove  the  slaves  from  Mallowbanks,  together  with 


452  HOT  PLOWSHARKS. 

the  further  information,  derived  from  papers  found  upon 
his  person  that  removed  all  possible  doubt,  that  the 
daughter  of  George  Eighmie  and  Alida  had  been  en- 
tered as  a  pupil  at  Beechwood.  The  village  paper, 
which  was  rampantly  Abolitionist  in  its  tone,  had  referred 
to  it  with  a  sly  touch  of  gratification  at  the  position 
in  which  the  principal  Avould  find  herself,  combined  with 
a  really  sympathetic  allusion  to  the  3'oung  lady  herself. 
Another  journal,  of  opposite  proclivities,  published  in  a 
village  a  few  miles  awa}^  had  discoursed  upon  it  at 
considerable  length,  taking  occasion  to  express  its  en- 
tire confidence  that  Miss  Hunniwell  had  been  imposed 
upon  by  the  accomplished  kidnapper  and  the  girl  whom 
he  had  represented  as  his  daughter.  It  added  that  the 
latter  was  said  to  be  gifted  with  that  rare  beauty  which 
the  quadroon  sometimes  possesses,  but  was  easily  re- 
cognized as  having  colored  blood  when  the  fact  was  once 
suggested  to  an  observer.  Three  letters  had  also  come 
by  that  morning's  mail  to  the  lady  principal,  which 
brought  vividly  before  her  mind  all  the  horrors  of  the 
fact  she  had  learned.  Two  of  these  were  from  South- 
ern patrons.  They  were  bitterly  indignant  at  the  fact 
that  their  daughters  had  been  made  the  victims  of  such 
an  infamous  fraud,  and  demanded  their  instant  return 
to  their  homes.  They  denounced  her  in  unmeasured 
terms  for  the  very  sin  she  hated  most — deception.  She 
felt  that  their  anger  was  justified.  She  was  angry  herself 
at  the  imposition  which  had  been  practiced  upon  her, 
and  utterly  appalled  at  the  disgrace  which  must  ensue 
to  her  beloved  seminary.  The  other  letter  was  from 
jVFr.  Robert  Gilman,  in  his  capacity  of  attorney  for  the 
heirs  of  Eighmie,  informing  her  that  they  had  positive 
information  that  "a  certain  negro  girl,  belonging  to  the 
estate  of  said  Eighmie,''  was  kept  and  harbored  at  the 
seminary  under  her  charge,  under  the  name  of  Hilda 
Hargrove,  having  lieen  entered  there  as  the  daughter  of 


BOHN  OF  THE  SPIRIT.  453 

Merwyn  Ha  grove,  deceased,  who  had  the  said  girl  in 
his  possession,  claiming  to  be  the  testamentary  heir  of 
said  Eighmie,  ough  in  fact  held  only  to  be  an  adminis- 
trator de  son  tort  of  said  estate.  A  reward  of  one  thou- 
sand dollars  was  offered  if  she  would  hold  and  detain  the 
said  negro  girl  until  the  duly  authorized  administrator 
could  take  measures  to  reclaim  the  same  as  the  property 
of  the  estate.  He  added  that  the  administrator  would 
arrive  in  a  very  short  time— perhaps  nearly  as  soon  as  his 
letter— fully  prepared  to  substantiate  his  claim  and  take 
the  necessary  steps  to  recover  possession  of  the  slave. 

A  cry  of  horror  escaped  the  lips  of  the  teacheras  she 
threw  the  letter  from  her,  almost  before  she  had  finished 
its  perusal. 

In  an  instant  she  was  transformed.  The  anger  of  her 
patrons,  the  pecuniary  loss,  the  shame  that  would  at- 
tach to  Beechwood  and  its  loss  of  prestige  — all  Avere 
forgotten  in  the  horrible  vision  that  rose  up  before  her 
of  the  fate  that  impended  over  her  favorite  pupil.  Till 
that  moment  she  had  not  been  conscious  of  any  excep- 
tional fondness  for  Hilda.  Her  beauty,  her  winsome 
frankness  and  her  aftectionate  disposition  had  made  her 
a  favorite  with  all ;  but  this  foster-mother  of  twenty  gen- 
erations of  cdimmcB,  this  alma  mater  of  a  thousand  spot- 
less girls,  would  have  counted  herself  unworthy  of  her 
trust  had  she  admitted  in  her  heart  an  hour  before  that 
she  could  love  one  of  them  in  any  great  degree  more  than 
another.  She  would  have  dismissed  from  her  employ  at 
once  any  teacher  who  had  manifested  a  like  partiality 
for  any  particular  pupil.  All  her  hfe  she  had  been  as 
impartial  as  Rhadamanthus,  and  had  fixed  her  pride 
upon  and  given  her  care  and  tenderness  in  almost  equal 
degree  to  all.  Now,  the  heart  of  this  gray-haired,  child- 
less woman  burst  the  bound  of  habit,  and  cast  aside  all 
the  wisdom  and  pride  of  her  life.  She  forgot  every  one 
that  was  under  her  charge  save  this  lone  child  of  a  law- 


454  HOT  PL 0  W SHARES. 

less  union — the  hopeless  Pariah,  the  incurable  leper,  be- 
fore whom  waited  only  a  life  of  shame  and  suffering — 
this  nameless  waif  of  the  Dead  Sea  of  Slavery.  She  saw 
it  all — the  chains  —  the  block — the  mart  —  the  life  of 
shame — the  death  long  waited  for  and  welcomed  because 
an  end  of  life.  Within  her  breast  the  mother  sprang  to 
life.  Born  of  this  spirit-travail  Hilda  became  at  once 
her  child — her  one  ewe-lamb — her  very  own.  Her  fath- 
er's death  had  given  her  back  the  mother  she  had  never 
known. 

"Oh,  my  darling!  my  darling !"  cried  the  childless 
woman,  as  she  clasped  her  arms  across  her  bosom  and 
walked  back  and  forth  across  the  study  floor.  "My  child  ! 
My  Hilda  !   What  shall  I  do  ?  How  shall  I  save  you  ?" 

That  moment  she  caught  the  fire  of  the  enthusiasts. 
In  that  hour  she  became  a  fanatic.  The  one  thought 
which  was  seething  in  the  heart  of  the  people  had  found 
entrance  to  her  own,  and  drove  out  all  others.  No  ar- 
gument, no  exposition  of  theory  had  ever  touched  her 
calm,  conservative  nature ;  but  the  very  thought  of 
this  Nessus  robe,  which  must  forever  encase  the  fair 
young  form  in  the  room  above,  overturned  at  once  her 
life-long  convictions,  destroyed  all  thought  of  prudence, 
and  set  her  in  battle  array  against  an  institution  of 
which  Hilda's  peril  was  but  an  incident — rare,  perhaps, 
but  possible.  With  her  nature  it  was  not  enough  to  feel 
or  b'elieve,.  She  must  act.  She  ceased  her  rapid  walk 
across  the  room,  took  the  letter  of  the  attorney  from 
the  floor,  and  carefully  read  it  again.  Her  soft  cheek 
burned  and  her  eyes  flashed  with  anger.  She  sat  for 
a  long  time  with  her  head  resting  on  one  hand,  her  lips 
close  shut,  and  the  letter  crushed  in  the  clinched  fingers 
of  the  other.  She  was  thinking  —  thinking  what  she 
could  do,  what  she  must  do.  She  had  decided  without 
thought  what  she  ought  to  do.  She  hated  this  attorney 
who  could   speak  so  coolly  of  the   fate   that  impended 


BORN  OF  THE  SPIRIT.  455 

over  her  favorite.  Yet  he  was  a  good  man,  au  honest 
man;  a  loving,  tender-hearted  father  and  a  conscien- 
tious attorney.  In  writing  this  letter  he  had  performed  a 
simple  duty  which  the  law  imposed  upon  him.  If  he  had 
known  her  thought,  he  would  no  doubt  have  been  sur- 
prised. He  would  have  felt  that  she  was  unjust,  and  he, 
in  his  turn,  would  also  have  been  unjust.  Cruelty  was 
as  foreign  to  his  nature  as  to  hers.  He  was  only  the 
product  of  a  system  she  could  not  understand,  as  she 
was  the  creature  of  a  development  of  which  he  kne^v 
nothing. 

She  heard  the  shriek  and  then  the  fall  in  the  room 
above.  In  au  instant  she  comprehended  what  had 
passed.  She  knew  that  the  fatal  message  had  reached 
Hilda's  ears.  She  sprang  to  her  feet,  rushed  out  of 
her  study,  ran  along  the  hall  and  up  the  stairs  with 
the  crumpled  letter  in  her  hand.  The  curious  pupils, 
who  had  come  from  their  rooms  at  the  sound  of  the 
shriek,  shrank  away  from  her  as  she  passed  them  in 
amazement.  She  did  not  speak  to  them  nor  look  at 
them.  No  one  had  ever  seen  her  manifest  excitement 
before.  A  teacher,  with  a  white,  terrified  face,  met  her 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  asked  her  a  question. 
Miss  Hunniwell  thrust  her  rudely  aside  without  reply, 
passed  straight  on  to  Hilda's  room,  turned  the  knob 
without  knocking,  entered,  and  closed  the  door  behind 
'  her.  Without  there  were  pale  faces,  quivering  lips  and 
hushed,  wondering  whispers.  The  premonition  of  a  sad, 
mysterious  tragedy  that  was  being  enacted  in  the  midst 
of  them  had  hushed  the  chatter  of  an  hour  before. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

THE   FREE3IAS0>iRY   OF   THE   OPPRESSED. 

Miss  Hunniwell  was  for  a  moment  half-be wildeixnl 
at  the  sight  which  she  beheld  on  entering  Hilda's  room. 
She  had  pictured  to  herself  when  she  heard  the  shriek, 
and  as  she  flew  along  the  hall  and  up  the  stairway,  a 
crowd  of  curious,  chattering  girls,  whose  witless  tongues 
had  brought  to  Hilda's  ears  the  knowledge  of  calamity. 
She  expected  to  find  them  standing  about  their  fainting 
companion,  themselves  p^-le  and  tearful  over  the  result 
of  their  own  thoughtlessness.  But  they  were  not  there. 
The  room  was  still  and  empty  save  for  Hilda,  lying  in- 
sensible upon  the  floor,  still  clad  in  her  riding-habit. 
The  little  jaunty  cap  she  wore  with  it,  which  had  be- 
come familiar  to  every  wayfarer  on  the  mountain  roads 
for  miles  around,  had  fallen  off",  and  her  wealth  of  dark 
hair,  released  from  its  coil,  was  trailing  on  the  carpet 
by  her  side.  In  falling  she  had  caught  the  coverlet,  and 
had  dragged  it  half  oft'  the  bed.  It  Avas  the  last  uncon- 
scious efibrt  at  self-protection.  Her  arm  now  lay  re- 
laxed and  motionless.  Her  white  ftice  was  upturned, 
and  the  fitful,  stertorous  sobbing  which  shook  her  frame 
was  the  only  sign  of  life  about  her.  Kindly  nature  had 
given  way,  and  the  over-strained  heart  was  for  a  tim(? 
unconscious  of  its  agony.  But  she  was  entirely  alone. 
Could  it  be  that  her  tormentors  had  fled  ?  The  teacher 
did  not  deem  it  possible.  She  had  come  at  once  on 
hearing  her  cry.  Thei-e  was  no  time  for  any  one  to  have 
escaped  from  the  room.  After  a  moment  she  became 
aware  of  something  unusual  in  the  appearance  of  the 
room.  She  could  not  at  first  determine  what  it  was. 
456 


THE  FREEMASONRY  OF  THE  OPPRESSED.     457 

She  glanced  quickly  about  to  make  sure  of  the  change 
she  felt  rather  than  saw.  The  Avardrobe,  bureau,  bed — 
all  were  in  their  accustomed  places.  The  table  in  front 
of  the  fireplace  and  the  little  desk  of  bird's-eye  maple, 
with  trimmings  of  wild  cherry,  at  which  Hilda  always 
wrote  her  letters,  was  in  its  accustomed  place  beside  the 
window  that  looked  out  upon  the  mountain.  Yet  there 
was  something  strange  and  unexpected — something  that 
disquieted  and  surprised  her.  What  could  it  be?  It 
was  not  the  pale  face  and  relaxed  form  upon  the  floor. 
She  had  anticipated  that.  All  at  once  she  noted  with 
surprise  that  the  door  that  opened  into  Amy's  room  was 
closed.  She  had  not  seen  it  shut  for  years — not  since 
the  two  girls  had  become  intimates.  She  had  not  looked 
for  this,  but  in  an  instant  she  comprehended  what  had 
occurred.  She  had  not  been  for  a  score  of  years  teacher 
and  confidant  of  all  the  girls  that  thronged  the  halls  of 
Beechwood  without  knowing  the  innermost  nature  of 
every  one  of  them.  The  clew  to  the  situation  was  in 
her  hand.  She  divined  instinctively  the  scene  that  had 
taken  place.  She  saw,  as  it  were,  the  cowering,  hateful 
presence  beyond  the  close-shut  door,  as  well  as  the 
white-faced  form  upon  the  floor.  A  smile  of  sorrowful 
contempt  parted  her  thin,  soft  lips  as  she  thought  what 
hand  had  struck  the  blow,  and  realized  how  doubly 
harsh  arrogance  and  pride  must  have  made  it. 

"Poor  child  !"  she  murmured,  "  she  has  had  a  bitter 
foretaste  of  what  is  in  store  for  her." 

Then  she  tucked  the  gray  curls  behind  her  ears,  a 
quick,  instinctive  gesture  of  pi'eparation,  and  addressed 
herself  to  the  task  of  restoring  the  prostrate  figure  to 
consciousness.  A  fainting  girl  was  no  new  thing  to  her. 
She  had  seen  scores  of  them,  and  knew  exactly  what 
was  to  be  done.  In  an  amazingly  short  time  Hilda  was 
sitting  upright  by  the  bedside,  her  teeth  chattering,  the 
dripping  locks  thrust  back  from  her  brow,  her  riding-cap 


458  HOT  PL  0  WSHARES. 

hanging  upon  one  side,  and  the  long  coil  faUing  down 
her  back,  and  slowly  untwisting,  while  her  great  won- 
dering eyes  sought  those  of  the  teacher,  full  of  fear 
and  full  of  questioning.  But  no  questions  were  per- 
mitted. The  nurse  who  had  her  in  charge  was  both 
skillful  and  tender.  Silence  was  imposed  before  she 
could  open  her  lips  to  frame  an  inquiry.  Very  soon 
her  habit  was  removed,  a  light  wrapper  substituted, 
and  Hilda  was  lying  on  the  bed  watching  the  teacher 
as,  with  housewifely  care,  she  shook  out  and  hung 
up  the  clothing  that  had  been  cast  aside.  Then  Miss 
Hunniwell  went  out  into  the  hall.  She  knew  the  ad- 
vantage of  leaving  the  dazed  brain  to  work  its  way  out 
of  the  mists  of  unconsciousness  alone.  She  closed  the 
door  behind  her,  and  stood  upon  the  landing  at  the  head 
of  the  stairway,  gazing  down  into  the  sunlit  hall  be- 
low. Several  of  the  pupils  took  occasion  to  leave  their 
rooms,  cross  the  hall,  or  descend  the  stairs  as  she  waited. 
All  of  them  stole  quick,  curious  glances  as  they  passed. 
Miss  Hunniwell  did  not  heed  them,  though  with  the 
teacher's  instinct  she  saw  them  all.  Then  she  pulled  a 
cord  that  rang  a  bell  in  some  distant  part  of  the  house, 
and,  after  a  moment's  waiting,  gave  an  order  to  the 
servant  who  answered  her  summons.  "When  she  re- 
turned Miss  Hunniwell  took  from  her  hands  the  tray  she 
brought  and  re-entered  Hilda's  room.  She  saw  at  once 
that  reason  had  resumed  its  sway.  She  judged  that 
Hilda's  memory  had,  in  part  at  least,  come  back.  The 
teacher  wondered  how  much  she  remembered  —  how 
much  she  knew.  She  feared  the  effect  upon  her  reason 
if  all  the  sad  truth  were  told  at  once.  She  kncAV  that  it 
was  a  case  demanding  all  her  care  and  pity.  Love  and 
duty  were  all  enlisted  in  behalf  of  the  fair  victim  of  un- 
toward fate.  Hilda  looked  at  her  with  surprise  as  she 
locked  the  door  and  came  toward  the  bed  with  the  tray 
in  her  hand.    She  seemed  struggling  to  recall  the  events 


THE  FREEMASONRY  OF  THE  OPPRESSED.    459 

of  the  day.  When  she  was  bidden  to  partake  of  the 
simple  fare  set  before  her,  she  looked  up  and  said : 

"Oh,  Miss  Hunniwell,  please  tell  me  what  has  hap- 
pened !" 

"Hush,  my  dear,  hush!"  said  the  teacher,  as  she 
lifted  a  warning  finger.  "  You  must  keep  still  now.  By- 
and-by  I  will  answer  all  your  questions." 

The  calm  voice  and  composed  look  soothed  the  ex- 
cited girl  at  once.  So  she  ate  and  drank  obedient  to 
the  teacher's  behest,  somewhat  languidly,  it  is  true,  but 
not  Avithout  relish  ;  for,  despite  the  rebellion  of  her  over- 
strained nerves,  Hilda  was  young  and  healthy,  and  such 
natures  not  only  quickly  recuperate,  but  feel  the  de- 
mands of  appetite  all  the  more  keenly  for  the  burden 
they  have  borne.  So  she  ate  the  toast  and  drank  the 
tea,  and  wondered  what  had  happened  that  she  should 
be  thus  attended  as  an  invalid.  The  teacher  said  no- 
thing, but  her  manner  was  so  tender  and  caressing  that 
Hilda  even  found  herself  wondering  at  it,  and  the  tears 
that  filled  her  eyes  were  tears  of  gratitude.  She  knew 
that  some  evil  impended  over  her.  She  remembei-ed 
dimly  the  curious  glances  she  had  encountered  in  the 
village.  She  half  recalled  some  terrible  words  that  Amy 
had  spoken.  She  had  scarcely  comprehended  them  at 
the  time.  She  had  only  vaguely  felt  that  she  had^become 
— she  knew  not  what — a  something  terrible — so  terrible 
that  even  her  best  friend  regarded  her  with  aversion. 
She  was  conscious  that  she  was  not  as  she  had  been  the 
day  before.  The  world  was  now  her  enemy.  Hence- 
forth she  was  to  be  an  outcast.  She  could  not  state  the 
cause,  but  she  felt  the  fact.  All  the  world  would  stare 
at  her  hereafter  as  the  men  in  the  village  had  done  that 
morning. 

The  pity  in  the  teacher's  eyes  confirmed  all  this.  She 
knew  that  her  unwonted  tenderness  meant  that  she  had 
po  other  friends.     She  thought  dimly  of  Martin  as  lor.  i 


460    -  HOT  PLOW  SHARE 8. 

— separated  from  her  forever.  She  did  not  blame  him. 
Why,  she  knew  not,  but  she  felt  that  she  had  become 
a  leper,  and  that  even  her  teacher  waited  on  her  thus 
at  the  risk  of  mortal  contagion.  She  was  very  grateful 
to  her.  She  wished  that  she  might  die  then  and  there, 
and  not  live  to  know  the  agony  she  felt  was  in  store  for 
her.  It  would  be  so  sweet  to  die  with  the  knowledge 
that  some  one  still  loved  her.  She  remembered  that 
when  the  darkness  came  on  she  had  felt  herself  all  alone 
in  the  universe.  The  world  had  seemed  to  be  slipping 
away  from  her,  and  she  herself  falling  away  down  into 
darkness — vmfathomable,  boundless.  She  had  come  back 
— back  into  the  world.  No,  not  into  the  world — into 
the  light — into  life  —  her  world — her  narrow  life,  into 
which  no  one  else  might  ever  come.  Even  this  gentle- 
hearted  teacher  might  only  approach  its  dim,  intangible 
border.  No  loving  presence  could  share  with  the  deso- 
lation in  which  she  must  hereafter  dwell.  The  best 
could  but  give  her  sympathy  and  pity,  where  everybody 
had  given  love  and  honor  hitherto.  She  did  not  under- 
stand it,  but  she  accepted  it  as  a  doom  of  which  she 
had  somehow  become  conscious.  It  seemed  like  a  ter- 
rible dream,  but  she  knew  it  was  a  more  terrible  reality. 
She  could  not  define  it.  The  words  that  Amy  had  used 
had  slipped  away  from  her ;  but  they  Avere  terrible 
words,  and  her  look  of  hate  and  disgust  had  been  still 
more  terrible.  She  wondered  if  the  teacher  loved  her. 
That  good  lady  had  taken  away  the  tray,  and  now  stood 
by  the  window  gazing  out  upon  the  mountain.  She  was 
trying  to  decide  what  she  would  say  to  Hilda — what  she 
would  tell  her  of  all  that  she  had  learned.  Hilda  raised 
herself  on  her  elbow  and  looked  at  her.  Would  she — 
would  anybody  love  her  hereafter  ?  Would  Martin  ? — 
Ah  !  how  her  brain  reeled.  She  remembered  now.  That 
was  the  question  she  had  asked  herself  when  the  dark- 
ness fell  upon  her.    It  was  of  him  she  had  thought  in 


THE  FREKMA80NRY  OF  THE  OPPRESSED.     4G1 

that  moment  ere  she  fell  into  the  abyss  of  silence.  She 
must  give  him  up.  Love  could  only  be  to  her  a  name. 
It  had  been  a  matter  of  course  hitherto.  She  had  not 
known  how  bright  the  sunshine  was  until  the  eclipse 
had  come.     Could  it  have  been  only  a  terrible  dream  ? 

She  glanced  at  the  door  that  led  into  Amy's  room.  It 
was  shut  close.  Her  eyes  swept  about  the  room.  All 
that  had  been  Amy's  was  removed.  Ah  !  how  terrible 
must  be  the  contagion  with  which  she  was  smitten  so 
suddenly.  Her  eye  fell  upon  the  heap  of  trinkets  Amy 
had  cast  in  reckless  disorder  upon  the  bed.  Everything 
confirmed  her  fear.  It  Avas — it  must  be — all  too  true. 
Only  her  father  was  left  her  now.  Her  father !  What 
was  this  horrible  fear  ?  "What  had  she  heard  ?  What 
had  Amy  said  about  her  father  ? 

Hilda  uttered  a  moan,  and  the  teacher  sprang  to 
her  side.  She  saw  that  memory  had  now  fully  re- 
turned, and  her  cheek  blanched  at  the  thought  of  all 
that  this  fair  child  must  face.  She  threw  her  arms 
about  her  and  kissed  her  again  and  again — not  without 
a  thrill  of  terror  at  what  she  did.     Could  it  be  ?    Was 

this  fair  thing a  groan  came  from  her  lips.     Even 

the  guard  which  years  of  discipline  had  set  upon  them 
could  not  repress  her  anguish.  Hilda  heard — saw — felt 
the  truth.  Her  very  lips  grew  white.  Her  nostrils  quiv- 
ered and  her  eyes  glared  with  terror,  but  not  for  herself. 
She  had  forgotten  her  own  Avoe.  Her  father  alone  filled  her 
consciousness.    He  was  in  peril — perhaps  suffering,  dying. 

She  caught  the  teacher  by  the  shoulders  ;  held  her 
fast  at  arm's  length,  and  gazing  into  her  frightened  face 
cried  in  tones  of  fierce,  threatening  agony  : 

"  My  father  !     My  father !     What  about  my  father  ?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  The  teacher  could 
not  answer.  She  could  only  Avonder  dimly,  how  much 
the  girl  knew — hoAV  much  she  guessed,  Hilda's  fingers 
buried   themselves   in  the  soft  white   shoulders  of  the 


46S  HOT  PLOWSHARES, 

slender,  gray-haired  lady.  She  even  shook  her  like  a 
child  as  she  said  in  hoarse,  terrible  tones 

"  Speak  quick — my  father  !" 

The  teacher  recovered  her  self-control  with  an  effort. 
She  looked  calmly  into  her  questioner's  eyes  and  an- 
swered : 

"He  is  dead  !" 

The  glaring  eyeballs  grew  glassy  in  their  fixed  stare. 
The  strained  muscles  relaxed — 

"Dead!   Dead!" 

A  dazed,  incredulous  expression  succeeded  to  the 
strained  glare  in  her  eyes.  "Dead!  Dead!"  she  re- 
peated dully  and  vacantly,  as  if  she  could  not  compre- 
hend the  meaning  of  th,e  words. 

Then  the  teacher  with  gentle  force  bore  her  back  upon 
the  pillow  and  kindly  and  tendei-ly  told  her  all  that  she 
knew  of  her  father's  death — carefully  avoiding  all  allu- 
sion to  what  she  had  learned  in  regard  to  Hilda  herself. 
Tears  came  to  her  relief  very  soon.  Sorrow  succeeded 
to  terror.  She  turned  her  face  to  the  pillow  and 
wept  in  an  agony  of  grief.  After  a  time  the  teacher 
left  her,  hoping  that  her  overwrought  system  might 
find  relief  in  sleep.  She  was  not  mistaken;  after  an 
hour  of  silent  weeping  Hilda  slept.  The  teacher  had 
locked  the  door  as  she  passed  out,  to  secure  her  from 
interruption.  Once  the  door  of  Amy's  room  opened, 
and  she  peered  in  with  a  sinister  look  upon  her  thin, 
pinched  face.  Close  beside  the  bed  she  saw  a  letter. 
With  stealthy  steps  she  crept  forward,  seized  it,  and  re- 
treated to  her  own  room.  A  half-hour  afterward  she 
came  again.  There  was  a  glow  of  malignant  triumph 
on  her  face  as  she  crept  forward  and  deposited  the  letter 
where  she  had  found  it.  Then  she  closed  and  locked 
the  door,  and  threw  the  key  as  far  as  she  could  out  of 
the  window.  The  letter  was  that  which  Mr.  Gilmau 
had  written  to  the  mistress  of  Beechwood. 


The  B'UEEMASOmiY  OF  THE  OPPRESSED.     463 

Two  hours  had  passed  Avhen  Hilda  awoke.  The  terror 
of  the  morning  had  all  departed.  Sorrow  for  her  father's 
death  had  swallowed  up  all  other  thought.  She  had  for- 
gotten Amy's  words.  She  remembered  dimly  that  some- 
thing had  separated  them,  but  she  cared  little  for  it. 
The  world  was  nothing  to  her  if  her  father  was  not  to 
be  in  it.  She  thought  of  Martin,  and  wondered  dimly 
why  he  had  not  come  to  her.  She  did  not  care  very 
much.  It  would  hardly  have  been  a  consolation,  yet 
she  wished  he  had  come.  Then  her  thoughts  wandered 
away  to  the  scene  of  her  father's  death.  She  felt  an 
unconquerable  desire  to  see  the  place  where  he  had 
fought  and  died  in  defense  of  his  honor.  She  knew  that 
he  had  not  engaged  in  the  removal  of  the  slaves  from 
any  especial  regard  for  their  well-being.  Indeed,  she 
knew  his  almost  savage  aversion  to  the  victims  of 
slavery,  as  well  as  the  institution  itself.  He  had  done 
this  simply  to  redeem  his  pledge  to  his  dead  brother. 
She  could  not  help  exulting,  even  in  her  sorrow,  over 
his  steadfast  devotion  to  the  pledge  he  had  given.  She 
must  see  the  scene  of  his  sacrifice.  She  must  go  and 
weep  upon  his  grave.  She  had  given  him  up.  She  knew 
he  was  dead.  Of  that  she  had  not  a  doubt.  Yet  his 
presence  seemed  still  to  fill  the  world.  She  rose  to  bring 
his  portrait  from  a  frame  on  which  it  rested  on  the  little 
bureau.  As  she  did  so  her  foot  crushed  a  paper  lying 
at  the  bedside.  She  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  Without 
looking  at  it  she  went  to  the  bureau,  and  resting  her 
arms  upon  it,  gazed  long  and  lovingly  at  her  father's 
face.  Then  she  pressed  the  picture  to  her  heart — 
kissed  it  again  and  again — dimmed  it  with  her  tears 
— wiped  the  cold,  bright  surface  of  the  daguerreotype 
with  her  handkerchief,  and  watched  the  beloved  fea- 
tures as  they  emerged  again  from  the  misty  film  that 
overspread  the  plate. 

By-and-by  she  noted  the  letter  which  she  still  held. 


464  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

She  saw  her  father's  name.  She  did  not  stop  to  ask  to 
whom  it  belonged,  but  read  on,  line  after  line,  vmtil  her 
cheek  blanched  with  terror.  The  old  horror  of  the 
morning  had  come  back — no  longer  vague  and  indis- 
tinct, but  clear  and  tangible.  The  terrible  truth  was 
here  revealed  without  the  shadow  of  concealment.  She 
was  not  only  bereaved,  but  debased.  The  father  she  had 
adored  was  not  her  father.  Could  it  be  ?  She  would 
not  beheve  it.  And  yet  it  seemed  as  if  there  could  be 
no  mistake.  It  had  been  learned  from  documents  found 
on  his  person.  Had  his  own  lips  bidden  her  to  disbe- 
lieve his  life  ?  She  could  not.  She  would  not.  x\nd  then, 
what  was  that  about  herself?  It  mattered  very  little 
now  that  she  was  doubly  fatherless.  Yet  it  was  terrible 
to  contemplate. 

She  pushed  back  her  hair,  and  gazed  long  and  anxiously 
at  her  reflection  in  the  mirror.  She  scanned  the  clear 
white  of  the  eye— pearly  to  the  very  edge  of  the  dark  iris. 
Then  she  thrust  back  her  sleeve  and  noted  the  texture  of 
the  soft  Avhite  skin — traced  the  course  of  the  blue  veins 
through  its  transparent  whiteness — the  nails  pink  and 
pearly  to  the  very  base — caught  the  mass  of  hair  that 
trailed  down  her  back,  and  held  it  betwixt  her  eye  and  the 
light,  noting  its  soft,  silken  texture  and  the  rich  broAvn 
tinge  that  it  gave  forth.  Was  it  possible  ?  Had  her 
father  deceived  her  when  he  told  of  her  mother — of  the 
orchards  of  Italy  and  the  russet-coated  pears  of  Pied- 
mont, for  which  she  moaned  so  piteously  when  the 
touch  of  death  was  on  her  wasted  frame  ?  "Was  the 
ivory  miniature  tl!at  hung  in  her  bosom  a  lie  ?  She  drew 
it  forth  and  gazed  upon  it — held  it  up  beside  her  face 
and  scanned  the  reflection  in  the  glass — placed  it  beside 
the  little  frame,  and  asked  herself,  could  he  have  dealt 
falsely  with  any  one — least  of  all  with  the  memory  of 
the  fair  wife  whose  love  never  lost  its  potency  ?  "Xever  ! 
never!"  she  said  to  herself,  and  her  dark  eye  flashed 


THE  FREEMASOXRY  OF  THE  0PPRE8SE1).    405 

with  pride.  Falsehood  could  not  inhabit  that  citadel  of 
honor.  Then  she  was  his  daughter  —  the  daughter  of 
that  fair  woman  whom  he  loved — and  this  foul  taint — 
it  was  all  a  lie — a  terrible  nightmare — a  horrible  mis^ 
take  !  Yet  it  was  he  that  said  it.  It  was  his  cold,  dead 
lips  that  had  sent  to  her  the  message  of  dishonor.  It  was 
he  who  had  left  as  his  sole  heritage,  perhaps,  the  know- 
ledge of  illegitimacy— the  curse  of  servile  parentage — > 
the  horror  of  a  tainted  blood  !  How  she  loathed  herseli 
as  she  thought  of  it !  She  tore  open  her  robe  and 
gazed  upon  her  palpitating  bosom.  She  wished  that 
she  might  tear  out  the  heart  that  throbbed  beneath  it. 
She  would  willingly  pour  out  her  very  life  if  the  one 
drop  that  corrupted  its  red  tide — the  one  drop  of  darker, 
baser  blood — might  only  flow  forth  and  leave  her  dead 
body  undefiled.  Oh,  it  was  terrible !  At  once  bereaved 
and  debased  forever !  Even  the  fair  white  breast  seemed 
foul  and  loathsome  as  the  tettered  leper's  skin.  But  ii 
there  should  be  a  mistake — a  doubt  ?  Ah,  that  were 
more  terrible  still !  A  doubt !  With  the  suggestion 
came  the  thought  of  Martin.  A  doubt — only  a  doubt, 
perhaps,  but  a  doubt  so  terrible  that  it  stabs  love  to 
death !  She  walked  back  and  forth  across  the  room. 
Her  stockinged  feet  gave  forth  no  sound.  The  moan  of 
her  unsyllabled  agony  dies  upon  her  lips.  She  must 
give  him  up,  too !  Father,  mother,  lover — even  her  own 
identity— gone  at  one  fell  swoop  of  fate  !  Ah,  she  can 
never  come  to  his  arms  now  !  All  the  bright  visions  of 
love-crowned  life  are  swept  av/ay.  Doubt  is  as  bad  as 
certainty.  Even  if  she  could  hide  it  fate  might  reveal 
the  hideous  fact.  The  brand  she  had  escaped  a  child 
might  bear !  Ko  !  no  !  no  !  Love  was  not  for  her  ! 
Midnight  had  fallen  on  her  moi-ning. 

A  knock  at  the  door  startled  her.  She  stood  and 
listened  in  silence.  A  strange  terror  seized  upon  her. 
Then  the  knock  was  repeated,  and  a  note  was   thrust 


466  HOT  PLOWSHARES, 

under  the  door.  She  gazed  at  the  wliite  missive  in 
aflfright.  After  a  time,  half  smihng  at  her  fears,  she 
picked  it  up  and  read : 

"Dear  Miss  Hargrove:  Yon  are  in  great  peril,  hut 
you  have  friends  who  will  help  you.  The  hloodhounds  are 
on  your  track.  Meet  me  at  the  hack  gate  of  the  seminary 
at  the  time  of  evening  prayers.  Do  not  leave  your  room 
on  any  account  during  the  day.  You  are  surrounded  hy 
enemies.  Trust  no  one.  Prepare  for  a  long  journey,  hut 
take  as  little  as  possible.  Dress  warmly,  plainly.  Remem- 
ber, you  promised  to  trust  me.  God  bless  and  strengthen 
you.     Yours  hastily, 

"Gilbert  Anderson." 

The  letter  was  scrawled  hastily  in  pencil.  It  was 
from  the  minister  in  the  village.  Thank  God,  she  had 
one  friend — yes,  two.  Yet,  stop;  they  were  friends 
only  from  pity.  It  were  better  she  had  none.  What 
did  it  mean  ?  In  danger  ?  What  peril  could  threaten 
her  ?  At  once  it  flashed  upon  her.  She  caught  up  the 
lawyer's  letter  and  read  its  woful  sentences  again.  Ah, 
it  was  plain  noAv !  The  administrator  had  arrived.  He 
had  come  for  her.  She  was  a  slave.  The  law  would 
give  her  to  him.  What  mattered  her  past  life — her 
present  surroundings !  They  only  served  as  a  back- 
ground to  make  the  future  more  terrible.  The  law  knew 
her  only  as  a  slave — a  chattel — a  thing.  The  law  Avas 
her  enemy  henceforth. 

And  now  a  new,  overmastering  terror  got  hold  upon 
her — the  terror  of  the  hunted  fugitive.  Bereavement, 
debasement,  the  loss  of  love,  friends,  everything  was 
forgotten  in  one  idea — how  the  terrible  doom  of  the 
future  might  be  avoided.  Strangely  enough,  she  did 
not  once  think  of  death  as  a  refuge.  Flight,  escape, 
was  all  that  filled  her  mind.  She  ran  to  the  window 
and  gazed  out  upon  the  mountain.  The  dark  ever- 
greens  seemed  to  offer  shelter.     If  she  could  only  get 


THE  FREEMASONRY  OF  THE  OPPRESSED.     407 

among  them  she  would  be  safe.  "  Surrounded  by  ene- 
mies." Whom  did  he  mean  ?  Who  could  be  her  enemy  ? 
Not  Miss  Hunniwell,  certainly.  A  slight  noise  in  the  next 
room  caused  her  to  start.  Ah,  he  was  right  !  She  had 
enemies — one  at  least,  and  if  that  one,  why  not  many  ? 
She  threw  up  the  window  and  leaned  far  out  to  see  if 
she  could  not  discover  anything  that  betokened  peril. 
Was  the  house  guarded  ?  How  would  the  law  lay  its 
hand  on  her  ?  Would  all  her  pretty  little  keepsakes  be 
torn  from  her  ?  Would  they  put  shackles  on  her  wrists  ? 
Would  she  be  sold  in  the  market-place?  Would  her 
charms  be  bartered  for  gold?  Of  course.  She  was  a 
slave,  and  a  slave  can  have  no  right.  All  that  she  had 
— aye,  all  that  she  teas — the  law  would  give  to  a  mas- 
ter !  She  felt  as  if  she  could  not  wait  until  the  night. 
She  must  leap  out  and  fly  at  once.  She  remembered 
how  she  had  climbed  down  from  the  roof  that  lay 
just  below  her  window.  She  clambered  unconsciously 
upon  the  window-sill.  A  quick,  shrill  whistle  startled 
her.  It  was  from  the  copse  upon  the  hill-side,  hardly 
a  bow-shot  away,  but  above  the  level  of  the  casement. 
She  glanced  hurriedly  along  the  dark  belt  of  ever- 
green. Nothing.  Another  whistle  —  soft,  quick,  fur- 
tive. It  fastens  her  glance  upon  one  spot — the  darkest 
covei't  on  the  hill-side.  Out  of  the  thick  verdure  flashes 
a  gleam  of  white — a  token,  a  signal — quickly  with- 
drawn. She  gazes  where  it  was  in  sickening  terror. 
There  is  a  motion  of  the  branches.  Fear  keeps  her 
still.  She  watches  the  opening,  paralyzed  with  horror. 
While  she  looks  a  face  appears,  framed  in  the  green 
foliage.  It  looks  into  her  eyes,  but  she  is  not  afraid. 
The  freemasonry  of  slavery  has  already  taught  her  its 
signals  of  distress  and  succor.  The  hailing-sign  of  uni- 
versal brotherhood  catches  her  eye.  She  knows  that 
the  face  is  that  of  a  friend.  It  beckons  to  her.  She 
shakes  her  head.     It  importunes  with  eager  eyeSc     She 


4G8  no  T  PLO  W SHARES. 

still  refuses.  It  gesticulates  wildly,  it  pleads,  it  begs. 
She  slips  off  the  windoAV  seat,  writes  a  hasty  note,  ties 
it  about  a  bit  of  stone  she  has  brought  in  from  one  of 
her  rambles,  and  throws  it  as  far  out  upon  the  mountain- 
side as  she  can.  She  sees  the  Face  run  toward  it 
cautiously ;  pick  it  up ;  read  it ;  nod  assent,  and  then 
suddenly  steal  away.  She  wonders  at  its  strange  cau- 
tion, but  she  trusts  the  Face  implicitly.  Degradation 
had  begun  its  work.  To  her  the  Face  meant  fellowship, 
fraternity.  Between  them  was  a  tie  the  sword  could  not 
cut  asunder.  The  fire  could  not  burn  nor  many  waters 
quench  her  trust.     The  face  was  black ! 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 


OUT   OF    THE    TOILS. 


As  Hilda  turned  from  the  window  a  new  view  of  the 
situation  flashed  upon  lier.  The  hour  of  passive  suffer- 
ing had  gone  by ;  the  time  for  active  resistance  had 
come.  She  walked  across  the  room  and  tried  the  door. 
It  was  fastened  from  the  outside.  She  was  a  prisoner. 
At  first  she  rebelled  at  the  thought.  It  occurred  to  her 
to  burst  it  open  and  defy  the  world.  She  was  not  afraid 
to  do  so.  The  blood  of  the  Hargroves  surged  into  her 
face,  and  as  she  caught  sight  of  the  reflection  in  the 
mirror  she  knew  that  the  look  of  fierce  determination 
painted  on  it  had  come  from  the  brave  man  she  had 
been  wont  to  call  her  father.  It  was  all  a  base  lie,  and 
she  would  yet  crowd  it  down  the  throats  that  uttered 
it.     But  how  ? 

That  was  the  question.  She  was  in  danger.  They 
would  take  her  for  a  slave.  She  must  escape  from  her 
pursuers.  Not  only  her  own  future  but  her  father's 
honor  demanded  that.  Her  father's  honor !  He  had 
given  his  life  for  it,  and  she  would  give  hers  to 
save  it  from  taint.  All  else  was  naught  to  her.  All  ? 
Her  hand  pressed  her  heart  as  the  thought  of  Mar- 
tin swept  through  her  brain.  Then  there  came  for  the 
first  time  a  terrible,  sickening  fear.  Could  it  be  that 
he  had  heard  this  story  of  unutterable  shame,  and  had 
cast  her  out  of  his  heart  ?  She  tried  to  spurn  the 
thought,  but  it  Avould  return.  Why  was  he  not  here  ? 
He  must  have  heard — he  must  have  known.  And  yet, 
why  should  she  blame  him  ?  If  he  were  at  her  feet  beg- 
469 


470  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

ging  for  her  consent,  she  would  not  unite  her  destiny 
with  his — no,  not  for  worlds.  The  dread  shadow  that 
hung  over  her  should  not  rest  upon  another  life  by  any 
act  of  hers.  And  yet  she  would  have  been  glad  to 
know  that  "  in  evil  as  well  as  good  report  "  he  loved 
her  still.  She  did  believe — she  would  believe  that  he 
did.  Some  terrible  calamity  must  have  kept  him  away 
— some  accident — ah  !  there  were  a  thousand  things 
that  would  account  for  it. 

She  caught  a  daguerreotype  case  from  the  table,  gazed 
ujion  it  eagerly,  kissed  it  and  hid  it  in  her  bosom.  She 
would  keep  it  forever — the  shadow  of  a  love  that  might 
never  be  renewed,  but  yet  full  of  bliss  in  its  meraor3\ 
She  went  and  opened  the  little  desk  at  Avhich  she  had 
spent  so  many  happy  hours  in  writing  to  this  playmate- 
friend — this  brother-lover  of  hers.  She  would  write  one 
more — the  last.  She  brushed  the  dust  from  the  purple 
baize  cover ;  touched  her  pens  and  paper  tenderly ; 
thought  again  of  the  refined  and  delicate  surround- 
ings which  she  had  always  enjoyed,  and  wondered 
vaguely  what  her  life  would  be  like  thereafter.  It  did 
not  matter.  She  would  do  what  honor  dictated,  and  no 
cowardly  thought  should  make  her  weak.  Across  her 
memory  flashed  the  picture  she  had  seen  in  her  dream 
— her  father  standing  at  the  tiller,  and  the  moonlit 
track  that  led  to  death.  She  could  die  or  live,  she  said 
to  herself;  but,  dying  or  living,  she  would  be  worthy  of 
that  memory. 

Then  she  drew  forth  the  paper  and  wrote.  It  was  the 
thin  tinted  paper,  which  was  accounted  the  very  finest  in 
that  day.  It  was  made  in  the  old  mill  in  the  village  be- 
yond, the  rumble  of  whose  wheel  she  could  almost  hear. 
The  genial  owner  was  very  proud  of  his  best  "  laid 
paper,"  and  had  presented  her  with  a  generous  store  of 
it  one  day  when  she  went  to  visit  his  daughter,  in  that 
happy  past  that  was  already  so  far  away  that  it  seemed 


OUT  OF  THE  TOILS.  471 

to  have  belonged  to  some  one  else.      She  put  away  these 
soft  memories  and  wrote  : 

"My  Dear,  Dear  Martin." 

She  had  never  doubled  this  tender  epithet  before.  She 
paused  a  moment  and  looked  at  it.  Then  she  drew  her 
pen  through  one  of  them.  A  moment  after  she  oblite- 
rated the  possessive.  "Xotmine,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  Only  the  Martin  that  I  thought  was  mine,  but  still 
dear."  Then  she  tore  the  sheet  into  little  fragments 
and  began  again.  Her  pen  did  not  rest  until  the  sheet 
was  finished : 

"Dear  Martin:  You  of  course  know  what  has  hap- 
pened, or  soon  will  know.  True  or  false,  it  must  separate 
us ;  viuless,  indeed,  its  falsity  can  be  clearly  shown.  Even 
then  it  may  well  be  that  you  would  shrink  from  uniting 
your  life  with  one  on  whom  such  a  cloud  had  rested.  I  do 
not  believe  you  would.  I  do  not  think  you  would  hesitate 
to  stand  beside  me  and  brave  even  the  worst  that  fate  may 
have  in  store  for  me.  I  know  you  are  noble  and  courageous. 
If  you  had  not  been  I  could  not  have  loved  you,  and  my 
father  would  not  have  trusted  you.  But  because  you  are 
all  that  I  love  and  honor,  I  must  not  bring  you  shame — 
no,  nor  even  the  shadow  of  it.  Strong  as  is  my  love,  I 
could  not  endure  the  possibility  of  distrust ;  and  you 
would  not  ask  me  to  do  violence  to  my  own  sense  of  honor 
even  at  the  dictate  of  aflFection.  Besides,  I  will  not  hide 
from  you  my  fear  that  what  I  believe  will  never  be  proved. 
You  know  the  mystery  my  father  always  preserved  in  re- 
gard to  Alida  and  her  children.  I  even  shudder  at  the 
fear  that  my  trust  in  him  may  itself  be  broken.  Ah,  poor 
crazed  Alida  !  If  it  should  be  that  she  is  in  triith  my 
mother,  then  indeed — but  it  cannot  be  !  Yet,  now  that  I 
am  bidding  you  good-by,  Martin  dear,  let  me  ask  you  to 
be  kind  to  her,  to  shield  and  protect  her,  as  if,  indeed,  she 
were  my  mother.  You  know  I  cannot  do  it.  I  must  even 
fly  for  my  own  safety.     The  law — they  say  so,  at  least- — • 


472  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

the  law  claims  me  as  a  slave.  Ah  !  how  often  we  have 
thought  of  such  things,  little  dreaming  they  would  ever 
come  near  us.  I  remember  now  all  the  stories  I  heard 
when  that  strange  Mr.  Brown  was  here.  How  long  ago  it 
seems,  and  I  wondered  then  if  they  could  all  be  true.  And 
now  I  am  one  of  those  strange  things  myself — a  slave — a 
soulless  mortal,  an  irresponsible  immortal.  I  am  another's 
property  to  have  and  to  hold,  fast  bound  and  fast  held 
by  the  riveted  chains  of  the  law.  This  hand  that  writes 
to  you  is  not  mine.  You  have  called  it  yours,  but  it  can 
only  be  yours  by  pu.rchase  now.  These  lips  that  you  have 
kissed — I  suppose  their  beauty  only  adds  to  my  value  in 
dollars  and  cents. 

"  But  do  not  fear,  Martin.  I  shall  never  be  a  slave.  Death 
is  a  bridegroom  who  is  always  ready.  No  fear  and  no  force 
can  keep  me  from  his  arms  if  I  must  go  to  them  to  save 
myself  from  dishonor.  Do  not  be  afraid.  She  who  has 
loved  you — who  always  will  love  you — has  not  a  drop  of 
blood  in  her  veins  that  would  not  run  gladly  out  to  save 
herself  from  such  a  fate. 

"Yet,  Martin,  I  would  almost  as  soon  live  or  die  a  slave, 
as  to  remain  even  in  luxury  and  ease  knowing  that  he  whom 
I  have  worshipped  as  my  father  had  deceived  me — was  not 
my  father — and  that  the  shame  they  seek  to  fix  upon  me 
now,  was  mine  to  bear  forever  and  to  give  with  my  life, 
unto  my  offspring !  No,  not  that !  Sooner  than  that,  I 
would  bury  shame  and  suffering  in  a  shameful  grave.  No 
other  life  shall  take  such  blight  from  mine. 

"But  I  must  say  farewell,  Marty.  The  dear  old  days 
come  back  as  I  write — when  we  were  boy  and  girl — brother 
and  sister — soul-wedded  lovers  from  the  first.  God  bless 
you,  Marty  !  We  shall  never  meet  again  I  fear — we  dare 
not  meet — unless — unless  a  hopeless  hope  prove  true. 

"I  am  going  away — how  or  where  I  do  not  knoAv,  and 
you  must  not  seek  to  know.  Do  not  follow  me — do  not 
try  to  find  me.  If  the  sunshine  ever  falls  upon  my  life 
again,  I  will  come  to  you.    Till  then — or  forever,  as  it  may 


OUT  OF  THE  TOILS.  473 

be — as  it  must  be,  unless — ah,  why  will  I  hope  !  Farewell, 
Marty  !  Say  farewell  when  you  read  this,  as  if,  indeed, 
you  kissed  my  dead  lips — to  know  me  forever  after  only 
as  a  sweet  memory.  I  cannot  tell  you,  dear  love,  how  I 
suffer ;  yet,  even  now,  it  is  more  for  you  than  for  myself. 
Again,  and  always,  let  me  say — adieu.  Hilda." 

She  bowed  her  head  upon  the  desk,  and  drowned  her 
dead  love  in  tears.  Her  frame  shook  with  sobs  ;  and 
love  that  knows  not  laws,  nor  customs,  nor  constitu- 
tions, nor  the  sacred  "rights  of  things  "  for  a  time  took 
tribute  of  her  fair  young  life.  Then  she  started  suddenly 
and  dried  her  tears  unconsciously.  Fear  came  upon 
her  once  more.  The  sun  was  wearing  westwardly.  She 
sealed  her  letter  hurriedly.  Hardly  had  she  done  so 
when  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  She  tried  to  say 
come  in,  but  the  words  died  on  her  white  lips.  The 
key  turned  in  the  lock,  and  the  teacher  entered.  She 
bore  a  waiter  on  which  was  a  bountiful  repast.  She 
closed  and  locked  the  door,  set  the  waiter  on  the  table, 
and  came  and  stood  beside  Hilda,  gazing  at  her  search- 
ingly.  She  stooped  to  kiss  her,  but  Hilda  drew  away 
from  her,  while  a  hot  tide  surged  over  cheek  and  brow. 
The  teacher  read  the  address  of  the  letter  on  the  desk, 
and  then  glanced  quickly  around  the  room.  Her  eye 
fell  on  the  lawyer's  letter.  She  tried  to  seize  it,  but 
Hilda  was  too  quick  for  her  and  snatched  it  away. 

"You  have  read  that?"  asked  Miss  Hunni well,  her 
voice  shaking  in  spite  of  her  boasted  self-control. 

"Yes,"  said  Hilda  sullenly.  She  had  risen,  and  was 
standing  defiantly  in  the  corner  by  the  window. 

As  she  spoke,  she  saw  a  man  wearing  a  broad- 
brinnned  slouch  hat  pass  along  the  carriage-way  to  the 
rear  of  the  house.  She  saw,  too,  the  black  face  watch- 
ing him  from  the  thicket  above. 

"  You  know  then  ?"  said  the  teacher  inquiringly, 
with  her  hands  clasped  tremblingly  before  her. 


474  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

"  I  know  it  is  a  lie  !"  said  Hilda  vehemently. 

"Oh,  no  doubt,  no  doubt,"  said  the  teacher  reassur- 
ingly;  "  but  you  know  that — that  you  are  in  danger  ?" 

For  answer  Hilda  pointed  to  the  figure  approaching 
the  carriage-house.  Miss  Hunniwell  uttered  an  excla- 
mation of  indignant  surprise. 

"The  wicked  wretch!"  she  exclaimed.  "Does  he 
think  that  he  can  prevent  your  escape  by  prowling 
around  the  premises  in  that  style  ?  If  he  thinks  he  is 
going  to  take  you  away  from  Beechwood  and  into — into 
— Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  dear." 

Hilda  had  cast  herself  into  her  arms,  and  was  weep- 
ing on  her  shoulder. 

"  Hush  !  What  is  that  ?"  exclaimed  the  teacher. 

Hilda  looked  up  in  surprise,  but  followed  her  gaze  as 
well  as  tears  would  permit. 

The  stranger  stood  in  the  driveway  scanning  curi- 
ously the  rear  of  the  seminary.  As  Miss  Hunniwell 
spoke  a  small  white  packet  fell  at  his  feet.  He  glanced 
around  in  surprise ;  then  picked  it  up,  unfolded  it,  and 
seemed  to  be  reading.  He  looked  toward  the  window 
near  which  they  stood,  nodded  his  head  in  that  direction, 
and  then  walked  quickly  away.  The  teacher  stood  for 
a  moment  thoroughly  amazed.  Then  her  face  lighted 
with  intelligence  and  scorn,  as  she  nodded  toward  Amy's 
room  and  said : 

"Enemies  without  and  spies  within!  Poor  girl!  poor 
girl !  But  thej'  shall  not  get  you.  That  man  has  been 
here  twice  to-day.  He  is  the  man  referred  to  in  that 
letter — the  administrator  of  somebody,  who  Avants  to 
get  hold  of  you.  But  he  shall  not.  He  has  no  warrant, 
and  cannot  get  any  before  morning,  and  you  will  be  far 
enough  away  before  then  or  I  shall  miss  my  guess." 

"  What  will  you  do  ?"  asked  Hilda. 

"Never  mind,  dear.  Eat  3'our  dinner  while  I  send 
away  the  spy,"  said  the  teacher,  shaking  her  head  wisely, 


OUT  OF  THE  TOILS.  475 

She  left  the  room.  Hilda  heard  her  knock  at  Amy's 
door,  and  a  moment  after  heard  them  both  leave  the 
room  and  pass  along  the  hall.  .  Soon  the  teacher  re- 
turned, smiling  at  her  own  shrewdness. 

"  I  have  informed  one  of  the  teachers  that  she  is  to 
keep  Miss  Amy  Hargrove  in  her  room  until  after 
prayers,"  she  said.  "Xow  we  can  lay  our  plans,  and 
there  is  no  time  to  lose.  I  have  already  telegraphed 
for  a  lawyer  and  Mr.  Jared  Clarkson  ;  also  to  Mr.  Kort- 
right." 

"Martin?"  asked  Hilda,  turning  pale. 

"Yes,  certainly.  He  will  be  here  by  to-morrow 
night  at  the  farthest." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Hunniwell,  why  did  you  do  it  ?" 

"Wliy,  I  thought  you  would  want  him  here,  above 
all,"  answered  the  teacher  in  surprise. 

"  Oh  no,  no  !  I  cannot  see  him  !  He  must  not  come  ! 
Do  you  not  see,"  she  continued,  and  a  deep  flush  had 
taken  the  place  of  pallor  in  her  face;  "if— if— it  should 
be — as  they  say  i*" 

"Ah,  poor  child!  but  it  is  not,"  said  the  teacher 
positively. 

"But — but  can  we  prove  it  is  not  so?"  asked  Hilda 
plaintively. 

"True,  true,"  said  the  teacher,  walking  back  and 
forth  and  wringing  her  hands  distractedly.  "Oh,  what 
an  infamous  thing!  What  a  horrible,  wicked  law  for 
a  Christian  people  to  obey  !  But  we  will  not  obey  !"  she 
exclaimed  hotly,  as  she  stopped  suddenly  before  her 
pupil.  "  We  will  take  you  away  from  them ;  we  will 
defy  the  law.  Did  not  Mr.  Clarkson  do  it  last  year? 
We  will  do  it  here  !  I  will  do  it.  I  will  appeal  to  the 
people.  I  will  go  myself.  I  will  help  tear  down  the 
jails.  We  will  defy  the  world  if  need  be  ;  we  will  rescue 
you.  You  shall  go  to  Canada,  where  people  are  free. 
Thank  God,  there  is  one  place  they  may  be  !" 


476  HOT  PL  0  WSHARES. 

The  delicate  woman  was  transformed  into  a  fury  by 
the  sense  of  injustice  and  wrong.  Her  hands  were 
dinched,  and  the  bhie  veins  showed  through  her  soft, 
fair  skin,  Avhile  her  eyes  burned  with  a  strange,  wild 
light  that  no  one  had  ever  dreamed  could  slumber  in 
their  blue  depths. 

"Thank  you  a  thousand  times,"  said  Hilda,  as  she 
clasped  the  teacher  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her,  while 
her  tears  fell  on  the  hot,  red  cheeks.  "  You  are  very 
kind  and  good,  but  I  must  not  risk  such  chances." 

"  What  can  you  do  ?" 

"I  must  go  away." 

"  But  how  ?    You  saw  how  the  house  is  watched  ?" 

"  It  must  be  done,"  said  Hilda.  Then  she  showed  the 
note  from  Anderson  and  told  how  she  had  received  it. 

"Aye,"  said  the  teacher  bitterly.  "He  distrusted 
me.  They  thought  I  would  give  you  up.  Even  the 
servants  are  truer  than  I  have  been  to  the  right  and 
liberty." 

Hilda  soothed  her  self-reproaches,  and  after  a  little 
the  woman's  wit  coupled  with  the  teacher's  experience 
perfected  a  plan  very  much  more  feasible  than  the  one 
the  minister  had  devised.  Hilda  donned  her  most  ser- 
viceable garments.  Her  bank  account  was  turned  into 
bank-bills  by  the  teacher  ;  a  valise  was  hastily  packed, 
and  she  was  ready.  Miss  Hunniwell  stood  at  the  door 
of  the  dining-room  and  noted  that  all  the  pupils  entered. 
Then  she  closed  the  door  and  a  muffled  figure  stole  down 
to  the  side  entrance.  The  principal's  carriage  happened 
to  be  waiting  there.  The  driver  stood  carelessly  by. 
While  the  pupils  sang  the  usual  hymn  that  preceded  the 
evening  repast  at  Beechwood  the  muffled  figure  came 
out  of  the  door  and  entered  the  carriage.  The  driver 
closed  the  carriage  door  and  strolled  carelessly  along, 
leading  his  horses  by  the  bit  to  the  front  entrance. 
After  a  short  time  Miss  Hunniwell,  equipped  for  a  drive. 


OUT  OF  THE   TOILS.  477 

came  down  the  wide  steps  with  a  market-basket  in  her 
hand.  She  entered  the  carriage;  tlie  driver  took  his 
place  on  the  front  seat,  and  just  as  the  dayhght  faded 
from  the  sky,  drove  leisurely  through  the  streets  of  the 
little  village,  turned  northward  at  the  end,  and  with  a 
chuckle  brought  the  snug  roadsters  down  to  their  work 
as  if  they  had  a  long  trip  before  them. 

Ten  miles  away  there  was  a  busy  town,  at  which  two 
trains  met  at  ten  o'clock  that  night— the  one  going 
eastward  and  the  other  westward.  A  young  girl  feft  a 
carriage  which  was  standing  by  the  platfornT  and  en- 
tered one  of  them  just  as  it  moved  away.  The  driver 
was  busy  with  his  horses.  A  gray-headed  woman 
watched  her  anxiously  from  the  carriage-door  as  she 
went  along  the  platform,  passed  the  dimly-lighted  sta- 
tion and  was  then  lost  to  view. 

Evening  prayers  at  Beechwood  came  at  eight  o'clock. 
Then  all  met  in  the  chapel,  the  organ  pealed  forth  its 
notes,  and  soft,  young  voices  uttered  songs  of  praise. 
The  day's  record  was  made  up,  announcements  for  the 
morrow  made,  and  then  the  day  at  the  seminary  was  at 
an  end.  Each  pupil  retired  to  her  room ;  an  .hour  was 
allowed  for  preparation  for  repose,  and  then  silence 
settled  on  the  throng  of  white  young  souls  beneath  its 
roof.  Until  evening  prayers.  Amy  Hargrove  was  kept 
a  close  prisoner  in  the  teacher's  room  to  which  she  had 
been  sent  by  Miss  Hunniwell;  returning  then  to  her 
own  room  she  found  all  still  in  the  adjoining  apartment. 
She  applied  eye  and  ear  to  the  key-hole.  She  could  only 
see  the  flicker  of  the  fading  firelight ;  she  could  hear 
nothing.  She  tried  to  open  the  door,  and  then  first 
remembered  that  she  had  locked  it.  Then  she  took  the 
key  from  her  own  door,  and  after  some  trouble  turned 
the  bolt.  She  opened  the  door  and  entered  cautiously. 
The  firelight  showed  that  the  room  was  empty.    Hilda's 


478  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

things  were  scattered  about.  The  door  was  locked.  So 
was  the  wardrobe  and  the  trunk.  So,  too,  the  httle 
desk.  Amy  moved  carefully  about,  examining  every- 
thing. Then  she  sat  down  upon  the  rug  by  the 
hearth  and  thought.  It  was  evident  that  Hilda  had 
fled,  but  where  ? — how  ?  She  could  not  understand.  Of 
course  Miss  Huuuiwell  would  not  like  to  have  her  ar- 
rested there.  No  doubt  she  pitied  her.  Indeed,  she 
pitied  her  herself,  or  would  have  done  so,  but  for  the 
fraud  that  had  been  practiced  on  her.  She  could  almost 
forgive  that  and  pity  her  still  but  for  the  envy  in  her 
heart.  Why  was  it  that  everybody  loved  Hilda,  and 
seemed  only  to  distrust  and  avoid  her  ?  Even  the  South- 
ern girls  in  the  school  were  all  sorry  for  Hilda  now, 
and  were  angry  at  the  man  who  had  come  to  assert  his 
right  and  do  his  duty  as  an  otBcer  of  the  law.  Of  course 
it  was  a  pity  that  Hilda  had  been  brought  up  to  think 
herself  free  and  white ;  but  it  was  silly  to  make  such  a 
fuss  about  her  now  that  they  knew  that  she  was  neither. 
"While  she  thought  of  these  things  Amy  was  startled  by 
a  slight  noise  at  the  window.  Some  one  was  quietly 
forcing  an  entrance.  The  sash  was  pried  up ;  a  hand 
was  thrust  in.  Her  heart  stood  still  with  terror.  She 
understood  it  all  in  an  instant.  She  had  never  dreamed 
when  she  wrote  the  note  she  had  thrown  to  the  man 
in  pursuit  of  his  slave,  informing  him  that  "  the  person 
he  was  seeking  was  in  the  room  adjoining,"  and,  in 
answer  to  his  look  of  inquiry,  had  motioned  toward 
that  window,  that  any  one  would  try  to  enter  except 
by  the  door  and  with  lawful  warrant.  She  had  been 
instigated  by  envy,  and  a  meddlesome  desire  to  have 
her  own  ingratitude  justified  after  a  fashion  by  the 
capture  of  this  slave-girl,  who  had  outstripped  her 
in  the  regard  of  her  fellows,  as  well  as  in  the 
studies  they  had  pursued  together.  Now  she  feared 
that  her  interference  would  be  revealed.     What  if  the 


OUT  OF  THE  TOILS.  47& 

kidnappers  should  be  discovered  and  themselves  ar- 
rested ?  Then  she  would  be  exposed,  covered  with  in- 
famy—perhaps held  guilty  with  them.  She  would 
warn  them  now,  and  have  them  go  away  as  quietly  as 
possible.  She  was  terribly  frightened.  The  sweat  stood 
in  drops  on  her  forehead  and  her  hmbs  refused  to  move. 
The  window  was  raised  now,  and  a  man  stepped  lightly 
within.  She  noticed  that  he  wore  coarse  woolen  socks 
over  his  boots  to  lessen  the  sound.  She  looked  up  at  his 
face,  and  saw  that  it  was  strangely  muffled.  At  length 
she  found  strength  to  rise.  She  must  warn  them  at 
once.  Suppose  Miss  Hunniwell  were  to  return  ?  She 
ran  quickly  across  the  room,  and  laid  her  hand  on  the 
man's  arm.  She  had  no  fear  of  him.  It  was  her  infor- 
mation that  had  brought  him  there. 

"  Hush  1"  she  said  in  a  low  whisper. 

She  started,  however,  when  an  arm  was  thrown  about 
her  waist,  but  before  she  could  cry  out  something  soft 
was  pressed  against  her  face;  there  was  a  pungent, 
choking  odor;  a  strange  sweetish  taste  in  her  mouth; 
the  world  seemed  suddenly  to  grow  dark  and  close 
about  her;  then  as  quickly  to  grow  light  and  expand 
to  infinite  distance.  She  felt  herself  slipping  away 
from  existence,  and  then— she  knew  no  more. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

THE  CHURCH  SHLITANT. 

The  administrator  of  George  Eighmie  was  very  far 
from  being  a  bad  man.  He  considered  his  cousin's 
relation  with  Alida,  and  the  attempt  to  free  his  slaves 
and  devote  the  proceeds  of  his  estate  to  the  benefit  of 
the  children  resulting  from  that  union,  an  outrage,  not 
only  upon  society  in  general  and  the  peculiar  institu- 
tion of  the  South  in  particular,  but  especially  upon  his 
own  kith  and  kin.  This -feeling  at  least  was  but  natural, 
and  simply  represented  the  general  sentiment  of  the 
community  in  which  he  dwelt,  intensified  somewhat  by 
that  feeling  of  personal  resentment  which  the  heir-ex- 
pectant always  feels  when  his  hopes  are  blighted  by 
unanticipated  claimants.  He  bore  no  ill-will  to  Alida 
or  her  children,  but  he  believed  them  to  be  legally  and 
justly  the  slaves  of  his  long-deceased  i-elative,  and,  as 
such,  rightfully  subject  to  the  claims  of  the  heirs.  This 
belief  was  an  inherited  one.  He  had  been  little  more 
than  a  boy  when  his  cousin  died,  and  the  sentiment  had 
grown  stronger  and  stronger  in  his  breast  with  every 
succeeding  discussion  of  the  subject  in  the  family  coun- 
cils. He  had  been  selected  for  his  present  position,  after 
the  long  years  of  litigation,  because  he  was  cool,  coura- 
geous and  intelligent.  He  was  a  man  of  substance, 
though  not  of  great  wealth— thrifty,  energetic  and  re- 
spectable. He  was  a  member  of  the  church,  consistent, 
earnest  and  devout.  He  would  no  sooner  have  com- 
mitted what  he  deemed  a  wrong  than  the  saintly-faced 
Miss  Hunniwell  herself.  Nay,  he  would  have  resisted 
what  he  thought  to  be  injustice  just  as  stubbornly,  and 
■  480 


THE  CHURCH  MILITANT.  481 

with  the  same  immutable  conviction  that  he  was  doing 
right  thereby.  He  was  a  law-abiding  man  ;  upright  and 
fair  in  his  dealings  with  others,  and  no  more  desirous  of 
securing  his  own  rights  than  of  rendering  righteousness 
to  others.  It  was  his  duty,  as  he  was  instructed  and 
believed,  to  reduce  to  possession  the  assets  of  the  estate 
he  had  sworn  to  administer.  It  was  especially  his  duty 
toward  the  rightful  heirs  to  reclaim  Alida  and  her  chil- 
dren, because  they  had  been  advised  that  it  was  possible 
that  complications  might  arise  through  the  suit  already 
begun  by  Jared  Clarkson,  as  the  guardian  of  Alida, 
which  would  be  entirely  avoided  if  the  children  of 
Eighmie  were  brought  within  the  jurisdiction  of  the 
courts  of  the  state  in  which  he  died.  He  had  no  doubt 
that  Hilda  was  the  daughter  of  Alida,  and  he  had  de- 
termined to  obtain  possession  of  her  person,  and  take 
her  to  Carolina  before  Clarkson  or  others  of  her  friends 
could  have  an  opportunity  either  to  place  her  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  law  or  to  interpose  any  legal  barrier 
to  her  removal.  He  did  not  regard  Hilda  as  having 
any  rights  at  all,  except  the  slender  one  of  personal  de- 
fense which  the  law  allowed  the  slave.  He  was  ready  to 
admit  that  it  would  be  hard  for  her  to  come  down  from 
the  luxurious  position  she  had  occupied  as  the  petted 
daughter  of  a  wealthy  and  refined  gentleman  to  a  state 
of  servitude,  and  he  would  have  felt  no  little  pity  for 
her  on  that  account.  Were  her  state  of  subjection 
once  clearly  acknowledged,  and  her  claims  as  the  heir 
of  Hargrove  abandoned  and  extinguished,  he  would 
willingly  have  consulted  her  happiness  by  consenting 
to  release  the  claims  of  the  estate  upon  her  person  for 
a  nominal  consideration.  In  short,  Sherwood  Eighmie 
M^as  an  honest,  upright.  Christian  gentleman,  who  had 
no  more  doubt  of  the  righteousness  of  slavery  than 
of  any  other  tenet  of  his  faith.  He  did  not  wish  to 
secure  the  girl  from  any  motive  of  cruelty  or  revenge. 


482  MOT  PLOWSHARES. 

He  would  have  treated  her  kindly,  accordhig  to  his 
ideas  of  kindness,  had  she  fallen  into  his  hands ;  but  he 
did  not  regard  it  as  any  injustice  or  inhumanity  on 
his  part  to  perform  to  the  letter  the  duties  his  position 
devolved  upon  him.  He  was  a  just  man  even  to  his 
own  slaves,  treating  them  fairly  rather  than  indul- 
gently. He  expected  and  exacted  service,  and  he  held 
himself  bound  as  a  Christian  master  to  give  good  sup- 
port, attention  in  sickness,  and  a  reasonable  amount  of 
relaxation  to  those  who  served.  He  would  have  fought 
for  one  of  his  slaves  only  less  readily  than  for  his  chil- 
dren, and  would  have  resented  their  ill-treatment  by 
another  to  the  limit  of  the  law  or  the  extent  of  his 
power.  He  would  have  done  this,  however,  not  so  much 
out  of  consideration  for  tlie  slave  himself,  as  because  he 
regarded  it  as  the  duty  of  the  master,  and  also  because 
any  interference  with  his  servant  was  an  infraction  of 
his  right  as  master.  In  short,  he  was  a  good,  fair, 
average  man,  shaped  and  fashioned  by  one  set  of  ideas, 
as  Harrison  Kortright  had  been  by  another.  Submitted 
to  the  same  influences,  the  two  men  would  not  have 
been  unlike  in  character.  Growing  up  as  they  did,  they 
seemed  to  stand  at  the  very  antipodes  of  thought. 

The  fact  was  well  known  both  to  himself  and  his 
lawyer  that  Miss  Hunniwell  was  not  inclined  to  the  ex- 
treme doctrines  of  the  Abolitionists,  and  from  this  it 
was  inferred  that  perhaps  the  best  method  to  secure  his 
end  was  to  speak  her  fair,  and  obtain  if  possible  her 
co-operation  in  getting  possession  of  the  "  person  held 
to  service  or  labor  "whom  he  sought.  He  could  not 
understand,  nor  could  his  counsel,  why  any  one  not  a 
rampant  Abolitionist  should  object  to  rendering  to 
him  what  the  law  not  only  gave  him  the  right  to  have, 
but  commanded  him  to  take  and  keep  as  a  part  of  the 
estate  of  his  intestate.  He  had  arranged  it  so  that  his 
attorney's  letter  should  reach  her  just  at  the  time  it  did. 


THE  CHilRGH  MILITANT.  483 

In  fact,  he  had  himself  brought  it  the  day  before  and 
mailed  it  in  the  village.  He  had  been  at  slight  pains  to 
conceal  his  identity,  and  had  brought  with  him  from 
Baltimore  two  men  who  were  ready  to  perform  his  bid- 
ding in  all  things.  They  were  men  of  experience,  too, 
for  they  had  more  than  once  been  engaged  in  the  re- 
capture of  slaves  in  several  of  the  border  states. 

As  regards  Miss  Hunniwell,  both  he  and  his  legal 
adviser  had  made  the  common  mistake  of  the  Southerner 
in  estimating  the  N'orthern  character, — by  supposing  her 
to  be  entirely  mercenary  in  her  impulses.  That  any- 
thing beside  her  material  interests  would  affect  her 
action  in  the  matter  he  never  once  dreamed  until  he 
stood  in  her  presence  and  heard  her  indignant  refu- 
sal to  accede  to  his  request.  Even  then  he  was  unable 
to  appreciate  the  motive  that  controlled  her  action. 
He  accounted  her  show  of  indignation  as  resulting  from 
a  careful  balancing  of  profit  and  loss,  and  sought  to  con- 
*^ince  her  that  refusal  would  be  far  more  disastrous  to 
"Her  school  than  assent  to  his  demand  could  possibly  be. 

When  her  soft  cheek  flushed  and  her  clear  blue  eyes 
flashed  at  this,  and  she  requested  him  to  leave  the 
premises  without  delay,  he  simply  thought  he  had  blun- 
dered in  the  method  in  which  he  had  broached  the 
subject.  It  was  not  until  his  second  visit,  when  he 
came  armed  with  his  proofs,  which  were  merely  re- 
ceived as  evidences  of  a  wicked  purpose  by  the  mis- 
tress of  Beechwood,  that  he  mistrusted  that  her  refusal 
arose  from  the  fact  that  she,  too,  had  imbibed  the  pes- 
tiferous notions  of  the  Abolitionists.  When  she  openly 
avowed  not  only  her  purpose  to  harbor  and  maintain 
the  slave  without  regard  to  his  demands,  but  also  de- 
clared that  she  would  do  all  in  her  power  to  prevent  his 
getting  hold  of  his  property  at  all,  then  he  first  per- 
ceived that,  like  all  the  rest  of  "  the  Yankees,"  she  was 
at  heart  an   enemy  of  "the    South,"   and  thoroughly 


484  HOT  PL  0  WSHARES. 

determined  to  obstruct  the  execution  of  any  law  designed 
to  protect  the  interests  of  her  people.  Thereupon  he 
had  at  once  determined  to  use  any  means  short  of  actual 
violence  to  secure  possession  of  his  slave.  He  had  a 
good  idea  of  Hilda's  appearance,  for  she  had  been  pointed 
out  to  him  in  the  town  that  morning  as  "  the  daughter  of 
that  poor  Captain  Hargrove  that  was  killed  by  the  slave- 
holders lately." 

He  at  once  took  measures  to  apply  for  a  warrant, 
and  set  his  men  to  watch  the  institution  to  prevent 
the  escape  of  the  fugitive.  He  had  strolled  restlessly 
about  the  building,  not  so  much  with  the  idea  of  secur- 
ing the  prize  as  to  see  what  avenues  there  were  for  her 
escape.  The  note  which  Amy  had  thrown  at  his  feet 
first  put  in  his  mind  the-  idea  of  forcibly  seizing  and  car- 
rying away  his  slave.  He  knew  he  was  in  a  community 
intensely  hostile  to  his  purpose,  who  would  spare  no 
pains  to  outwit,  delay  and  thwart  his  plans.  In  a  legal 
struggle  he  dreaded  their  activity,  shrewdness  and  fer- 
tility of  resource,  especially  aided,  as  he  saw  it  would 
be,  by  an  almost  universal  public  sentiment ;  but  he 
thought  that  a  bold,  quick  stroke  would  meet  with  little 
or  no  resistance,  and  estimated  that  he  would  be  able 
to  remove  the  girl  should  he  once  get  her  in  his  power 
without  serious  inconvenience.  Like  most  Southern  men 
of  that  time,  he  counted  all  Xorthern  men  as  cowards, 
and  had  no  doubt  that  himself  and  his  two  assistants 
would  present  a  show  of  force  that  would  effectually 
prevent  all  attempt  at  a  rescue. 

Upon  mentioning  the  matter  to  these  worthies  he 
found  them  entirely  of  his  opinion.  They  at  once  pro- 
ceeded to  reconnoitre  the  rear  of  the  seminary,  and 
announced  their  readiness  to  undertake  the  enterprise 
that  very  night.  Their  plans  were  quickly  matured. 
One  of  them  had  noticed  a  ladder  lying  beside  the  car- 
Tiage-house  which  was  all  that  was  needed  to  give  access 


THE  CHURCH  MILITANT.  485 

to  the  roof  below  Hildca's  window.  A  carriage  was  easily 
obtained,  which  one  of  the  assistants  was  to  drive,  while 
the  other,  with  the  aid  of  Eighmie,  was  to  secure  the 
girl.  It  seemed  a  very  simple  matter.  None  of  them 
had  any  fear  as  to  the  result.  Indeed,  they  thought  it 
more  than  likely  there  would  be  no  resistance  or  pursuit, 
but  Sherwood  Eighmie  hardly  rehshed  the  idea  of  a 
stealthy  entrance  into  the  house.  He  would  much  have 
preferred  to  go  in  by  the  front  door,  regardless  of  all 
remonstrance,  and  carry  away  what  he  was  entitled  to 
take.  The  entry  by  the  window  smacked  to  him  of 
burglary ;  but  his  two  assistants,  with  whose  lives  this 
method  was  more  in  harmony,  overruled  his  objection 
by  dwelling  on  the  obstacles  he  was  likely  to  meet  Avith 
from  a  hostile  community  and  the  very  slender  prospect 
of  obtaining  justice  by  strictly  legal  methods.  Besides, 
they  argued  that  a  bold  and  dashing  movement  of  this 
kind  would  greatly  increase  the  prestige  of  the  South, 
and  as  they  could  easily  be  beyond  the  state  line  before 
any  pursuit  was  made,  there  was  really  only  a  show  of 
danger  in  it — just  enough  to  make  it  enjoyable.  This 
advice  was  not  altogether  disinterested,  since  these  wor- 
thies would  be  able,  as  they  well  knew,  to  demand  a  much 
greater  sum  for  engaging  in  such  an  adventure  than  if 
they  should  merely  follow  their  employer  about  as  an 
unnecessary  body-guard  while  he  awaited  the  slow  pro- 
cess of  the  law  to  put  him  in  possession  of  his  own. 
To  climb  a  ladder,  crack  a  window  or  forcibly  remove 
an  unwilling  slave-girl  from  a  harbor  of  refuge,  were 
none  of  them  acts  that  they  regax'ded  with  any  especial 
horror.  So  they  ridiculed  the  hesitancy  of  their  prin- 
cipal, made  light  of  his  objections,  piqued  his  vanity 
and  appealed  to  his  prejudice  until  they  carried  their 
point,  and  it  was  decided  that  the  capture  should  be 
made  an  hour  after  evening  prayers  at  the  seminary. 
A  little  after  dark  two  vehicles  moved  out  of  the  vil- 


486  HOT  PLO  W SHARES. 

lage  towaixl  the  seminary.  In  the  first  of  these  was  the 
worthy  pastor,  whose  face  glowed  with  the  anticipation 
of  doing  a  good  act.  The  man  and  horse  were  oddly 
matched,  and  yet  there  was  not  lackmg  a  sense  of  fit- 
ness between  them.  The  divine,  a  great  broad-shoul- 
dered, Saxon -visaged  man,  sat  in  the  light,  covered 
buggy,  his  soft  felt  hat  pulled  well  down  over  his  ears, 
the  robe  tucked  close  about  him,  and  urged  forward  the 
staid,  shambling  bay  with  an  occasional  cluck,  which 
had  no  eft'ect  upon  that  animal,  which  merely  kept  on 
at  the  same  steady  pace.  Yet  a  close  observer  could 
see  at  a  glance  that  there  was  good  material  both  in 
man  and  horse.  The  broad,  firm  Jaw  and  cool  gray 
eye  bespoke  a  man  who,  if  somewhat  slow  in  making 
up  his  mind,  would  never  waver  from  a  decision  once 
made.  The  firm  grip  of  the  bare  broad  hand  that 
grasped  the  reins  showed  that  even  in  a  physical  con- 
test he  would  be  no  mean  opponent.  The  horse  was  a 
dark  blood-bay,  whose  powerful  shoulder  and  long, 
sloping  quarters  showed  that  his  stride  was  capable 
of  being  quickened  until  it  reached  a  rate  by  no  means 
despicable  even  among  frequenters  of  the  turf.  In  his 
careless  way  the  dominie  was  a  horseman,  and,  despite 
his  seemingly  careless  driving,  was  not  accustomed  to 
take  anybody's  "dust"  on  the  country  roads  he  tra- 
veled. His  horse  knew  all  his  moods,  and  would  not 
only  endure  his  perpetual  nagging,  but  when  his  master 
was  in  serious  earnest,  pricked  up  his  ears,  stretched 
out  his  long  neck,  and  threw  the  dirt  in  a  st3'le  that 
made  urging  superfluous.  He  was  a  sagacious  beast, 
too,  and  at  the  word  of  command  backed  from  the 
stall  into  the  shafts,  and,  with  the  buggy  attached,  out 
of  the  barn  into  the  little  yard  behind  the  parsonage. 
He  was  even  trusted  to  trot  round  to  the  front  door  with- 
out a  driver,  there  to  wait  while  the  dominie  changed 
his  clothes  and  prepared  for  the  road.    Left  unfastened 


THE  CHURCH  MILITANT.  487 

by  his  absent-minded  master  on  the  highway  for  a  time 
longer  than  he  deemed  needful  for  a  pastoral  call,  he 
sometimes  trotted  leisurely  home  and  waited  at  the 
stable-door  for  his  master's  return.  In  short,  Mr.  Ander- 
son and  his  horse  were  well  suited  to  the  plan  he  had  de- 
vised, which  was  nothing  less  than  to  take  Hilda  twenty 
miles  and  more  across  the  country  before  sunrise  to  a 
state  that  had  never  felt  the  foot  of  a  slave  except  on 
his  way  to  freedom — the  only  state  of  the  North  from 
which  one  never  was  returned  to  bondage. 

He  had  laid  his  plans  with  great  care.  The  man-of- 
all-work  at  the  seminary  he  knew  to  be  good  and  true,  and 
a  member  of  his  church.  To  him  he  had  revealed  just 
enough  of  the  facts  to  enable  him  to  understand  Hilda's 
danger  and  his  pastor's  desire  to  avert  it.  Through 
him  he  had  conveyed  to  her  the  note  she  had  received, 
but  he  had  neglected  to  inform  him  of  the  means  he  in- 
tended to  take  to  thwart  the  designs  of  the  enemy.  For 
this  reason  he  had  received  no  intimation  of  the  change 
of  heart  of  the  Principal,  and  the  change  of  the  plan 
of  escape  through  her  co-operation.  The  coachman 
thought  he  was  simply  carrying  out  the  design  of  his 
pastor  when  he  drove  through  the  town,  in  open  day 
almost,  with  the  prize  which  the  slave-master  coveted. 
So  the  good-natured  divine's  eyes  shone  with  the  warmth 
of  benevolence  behind  his  gold-bowed  glasses  as  he  clucked 
to  his  bay  horse,  and  imagined  himself  a  knight-errant 
bound  to  the  relief  of  a  sore-distressed  damsel. 

As  he  drove  on  down  the  river  road  that  ran  in 
front  of  the  seminary,  he  heard  the  rattle  of  wheels  be- 
hind, and  looking  around  he  saw  a  two-seated  carriage 
containing  three  men.  He  could  not  see  very  well  at 
a  distance,  but  he  knew  the  team  with  a  horseman's 
instinct,  and  wondered  where  it  could  be  going  in  that 
direction  at  that  time  of  day.  Half  unconsciously  he 
drew  rein,  and   scanned  the  occupants  of  the  carriage 


488  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

more  closely  as  they  came  near.  He  recognized  them 
instantly.  They  were  enemies — enemies  of  all  that  was 
good  and  tender  in  humanity — traffickers  in  human  flesh 
— man-slayers,  women-stealers — the  enemies  of  God,  be- 
cause they  were  the  enemies  of  His  poorest  poor. 

These  thoughts  went  through  the  good  pastor's  mind 
as  he  looked  through  the  little  window  at  the  back  of 
his  buggy  into  the  face  of  his  brother  in  the  church, 
Sherwood  Eighmie,  deacon  of  the  church  at  Rawdon,  in 
Clayburn  County,  Carolina.  Strange  that  a  few  degrees 
of  latitude  should  put  honest  men  so  far  asunder  in  belief 
as  to  what  constituted  righteousness ! 

The  dominie  did  not  think  of  this,  however,  but  be- 
gan to  wonder  what  their  mission  in  this  direction  could 
be.  Little  by  little  the  essential  elements  of  the  plan  of 
the  kidnappers  dawned  upon  him.  Both  were  after  the 
same  game,  he  thought,  but  he  had  the  advantage — he 
knew  them  and  they  did  not  know  him.  He  would  foil 
them.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  to  wonder  how  they  ex- 
pected to  get  possession  of  the  prize.  It  did  not  take 
him  long  to  conclude  that  she  was  to  be  betrayed  by 
the  teacher.  It  was  common  report  that  Eighmie  had 
been  twice  to  the  seminary  on  that  day,  and  as  nothing 
w^as  known  of  the  result  of  his  visits,  this  conclusion, 
though  it  seems  to  be  harsh  to  us  who  know  the  truth, 
was  by  no  means  unnatural  to  one  in  his  state  of  know- 
ledge. That  Hilda  was  to  be  betrayed  he  felt  assured, 
and  that  he  must  save  her  he  felt  still  more  convinced. 

It  was  now  quite  dark,  and  they  were  more  than  a 
mile  beyond  the  seminary.  Once  or  twice  the  party 
behind  had  halted.  Then  the  dominie  had  stopped,  too, 
and  watched  them  through  his  little  window.  The  others 
had  not  been  unmindful  of  this  maneuver. 

"That  old  duffer's  a-watching  us.  Colonel,"  said  one 
of  the  assistants,  speaking  to  Eighmie. 

"What  makes  you  think  soV" 


THE  CHURCH  MILITANT,  489 

"  Think  ?  I  know.  When  we  go  fast,  he  throws  out 
a  leg  and  gits  away  from  us  ;  when  we  slow  up,  he  shuts 
off  steam,  and  when  we  stop  altogether,  he  anchors  just 
ahead  of  us." 

"Oh,  pshaw!  you're  too  suspicious,  Barnes.  How 
do  you  suppose  that  man  knows  any  more  about  us 
than  we  do  about  him  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  liow,  Colonel ;  but  I  '11  lay  a  fiver  that 
he  knows  us,  knows  our  business  here,  and  guesses,  if 
he  don't  know  for  certain,  that  there 's  some  sort  of 
devilment  brings  us  this  way  at  this  time  of  night." 

"Eeally,  Barnes,  you're  getting  nervous.  You  seem 
to  think  these  Yankees  know  everything." 

"Don't  you  have  any  trouble  about  Jim  Barnes.  He 
never  showed  no  white  feather  yet,  and  he  ain't  likely 
to  now." 

"But  you  were  so  eager  for  this  plan — " 

"  So  I  were.  Colonel ;  so  I  were — not  exactly  as  hot 
for  it  as  Bill  Marsden,  but  I  thought  it  a  heap  better  'n 
the  one  you  had  in  mind." 

"Of  course  it  is,"  said  the  one  called  Marsden,  sul- 
lenly. "I  'd  rather  have  a  hundred  men  after  me  than 
a  lot  of  screechin'  gals  at  my  heels." 

"There  ain't  no  doubt  about  this  bein'  the  best  way," 
said  Barnes;  "but  they  ain't  neither  of  'em  clear  of 
difficulty.  You  see,  Colonel,  I  've  been  on  this  sort  of 
expeditions  before,  and  I  tell  ye  what  it  is,  these  Yankees 
are  mighty  knowin'  folks." 

"They  are  said  to  be  very  inquisitive,"  said  Eighmie, 
laughing,  "but  they  haven't  troubled  us  yet." 

"That's  just  where  our  Southern  folks  make  a  mis- 
take about  the  Yankees,"  said  Barnes  oracularly.  "It 
ain't  so  much  the  number  of  questions  they  asks  as  'tis 
the  amount  of  things  they  '11  find  out  without  askin' 
questions,  thet  makes  the  Yankee  difterent  from  the 
rest  of  mankind.    Now,  here  we  've  been  in  this  little 


490  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

town  two  days,  and  there  hain't  hardly  been  three  ques- 
tions asked  all  on  us,  but  you  can  jest  bet  your  bottom 
dollar  there  hain't  a  boy  in  Blankshire  don't  know  who 
we  are,  where  we  come  from,  and  thet  Ave  're  atter  that 
gal  they  call  Hildy  Hargrove  up  there  at  Beechnut  Semi- 
nary, or  whatever  its  name  is." 

"That 's  so,"  said  Marsden.  "  You  can  read  that  in 
their  faces,  men,  women  and  children,  when  we  go  'long 
the  street.  Ye  see.  Colonel,  we  're  three  strangers  in  a 
little  'huddle,'  as  they  call  it,  where  strangers  ain't 
over-abundant  as  a  rule,  so  they  put  things  together 
and  find  out  all  about  us  while  a  Southern  man  'ud  be 
gettin'  an  introduction." 

"That  maybe,"  said  Eighmie  ;  "but  that's  no  rea- 
son why  the  man  in  that  buggy  ahead  should  be  watch- 
ing us  now." 

"It  may  not  be  any  reason,"  said  Barnes,  doggedly; 
"  but  they  're  nigh  about  all  against  us  here,  an'  when 
you  've  got  sech  a  thing  on  hand  as  we  have  to-night, 
it 's  well  enough  to  be  lookin'  out  for  accidents." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  propose  ?"  asked  Eighmie. 

"We  've  got  to  throw  that  fellow  off  his  guard  some 
way,  and  I  think  the  best  plan  is  to  go  by  him.  It  may 
make  us  a  little  late,  but  we  've  got  to  chance  that ; 
and,  mind  you,  we  ain't  any  worse  off  if  this  plan 
falls  through  in  that  way  than  if  we  hadn't  started 
out  on  it." 

"Well,  go  ahead,"  said  Eighmie. 

Barnes  touched  the  horses  with  his  whip,  and  almost 
at  the  instant  they  broke  into  a  trot ;  the  dominie's 
horse  did  likewise,  and  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  de- 
spite a  constant  acceleration  of  speed,  the  two  vehicles 
kept  at  about  the  same  distance  apart,  until  finally  the 
bay  turned  sharply  into  a  lane  leading  up  to  a  farm- 
.house  on  the  hill-side,  in  whose  window  a  bright  light 
was  burning. 


THE  CHURCH  MILITANT.  491 

"What  do  you  think  now?"  asked  Eighmie  with  a 
quiet  laugh. 

"Mebbe  you're  right,"  said  Barnes;  "but  I'm  al- 
ways suspicious  of  a  Yankee,  and  you  '11  find.  Colonel, 
that  the  safest  way  of  dealing  with  'em  is  to  credit  them 
with  knowing  all  that  you  know  and  a  little  more  be- 
sides." 

The  others  laughed  at  Barnes'  justification  of  his 
caution,  and  dismissed  all  farther  thought  of  its  cause. 

Hardly  had  the  other  vehicle  passed  the  opening  of 
the  lane,  however,  when  the  bay  horse  again  slackened 
his  speed  to  a  walk,  and  the  dominie,  peering  out  at  the 
side,  watched  the  carriage  until  it  disappeared  from 
sight  around  a  little  hill  that  effectually  hid  from  view 
the  road  along  which  they  had  come.  Then  he  stopped 
the  bay,  listened  a  moment  to  make  sure  that  he  was 
not  mistaken,  reined  his  horse  to  one  side  of  the  narrow 
lane,  backed  until  the  near  wheel  touched  the  wall,  gave 
the  bay  the  word,  and  in  a  moment  was  whirling  along 
the  road  they  had  come  at  a  gait  anything  but  ministe- 
rial. In  five  minutes  he  was  in  front  of  the  seminary. 
It  was  considerably  past  the  hour  when  he  had  hoped 
to  arrive.  The  evening  prayers  were  over,  and  the 
pupils  had  dispersed  to  their  rooms.  Many  of  them  had 
retired,  as  the  darkened  windows  showed.  It  would  not 
do  to  drive  up  the  frozen  avenue.  Still  less  would  it  do 
to  go  on  a  hundred  yards  and  take  the  wood-road  that 
led  up  to  the  rear  of  the  building.  He  knew  every  inch 
of  ground.  The  wood-road  was  narrow  and  rocky.  If 
he  had  abundance  of  time,  the  sagacious  bay  would 
pick  his  way  along  it  almost  noiselessly,  but  haste  was 
necessary  now.  Hilda  must  be  waiting.  At  any  mo- 
ment the  enemy  might  return.  He  passed  through  the 
gate,  turned  out  of  the  avenue  upon  the  lawn,  crushing 
an  arhor  vitce  beneath  each  wheel  as  he  broke  through 
the  scanty  hedge,  drove  noiselessly  along  the  turf  until 


492  HOT  PL  0  WSHARES. 

he  reached  the  opening  between  the  carriage-house  and 
the  kitchen,  looked  hastily  about,  and,  seeing  no  one, 
let  the  horse  take  its  way  to  the  rear  of  the  premises, 
and  turned  hira  down  the  wood-road  to  a  clump  of  ever- 
greens half  a  dozen  rods  away.  By  this  thicket  the 
horse  and  buggy  were  completely  hidden.  He  lowered 
'the  top  of  the  buggy,  threw  the  robe  over  the  dash- 
board, twisted  the  reins  about  the  whip,  stepped  quickly 
down,  and  hurried  back  toward  the  house. 

The  night  was  a  cool  one,  and  he  swung  his  arms  and 
stamped  cautiously  upon  the  turf  by  the  roadside  to  re- 
store the  circulation  as  he  went.  The  stars  shone 
brightly,  but  there  was  no  moon.  As  he  neared  the 
rear  of  the  building  he  moved  more  cautiously.  He 
fancied  he  heard  a  step  in  the  bushes  at  his  left,  and 
thinking  it  might  be  Hilda  waiting  for  him,  he  stopped 
and  called  her  name  softly.  There  was  no  answer,  but 
he  was  sure  he  heard  a  suppressed  breathing. 

"Hilda — my  child — Miss  Hargrove — don't  be  afraid. 
It 's  I,  Mr.  Anderson.  Are  you  there  ?"  he  said  in  a  half 
whisper.  Then  he  listened.  No  answer.  He  could 
hear  his  heart  beat.  The  stars  seemed  blinking  in 
mockery  at  his  anxiety.  He  was  sure  a  human  being 
was  crouching  near  him.  A  thrill  of  terror  swept 
through  his  frame.  Could  it  be  that  the  kidnappers 
had  an  accomplice  watching  outside  ?  Had  the  poor 
girl  been  seized  because  of  his  delay  ?  A  thousand  pos- 
sibilities occurred  to  him  ere  he  had  breathed  twice. 
Then  a  touch  of  fear  came.  It  was  a  strange  position 
for  him,  a  minister  of  the  Gospel,  to  be  in.  Suppose  he 
should  be  set  vipon  and  overpowered '?  Suppose  he 
should  get  into  a  conflict  with  these  Southern  despera- 
does ?  Suppose —  He  shook  his  broad  shoulders  and 
threw  away  his  fears.  He  Avould  suppose  nothing.  He 
had  come  to  do  right — God's  right — and  he  would  do  it 
whatever  the  result.     His  hands  shut  tight  and  lus  te(?tU 


THE  CHURCH  MILITANT.  493 

met  under  his  tawny  beard  like  the  jaws  of  a  vise. 
He  was  no  child  to  be  frightened  at  a  shadow.  He 
marched  with  the  step  of  a  grenadier  to  the  corner  of 
the  carriage-house  and  stood  there  listening.  A  solitary 
pine  growing  just  at  the  corner  of  the  stable  screened 
him  from  view  in  all  directions.  There  was  no  light  at 
the  back  of  the  house  except  in  Amy's  room,  and  a  soft 
flickering  one  in  Hilda's.  Presently  the  former  was  ex- 
tinguished. Then  he  watched  the  door  expecting  Hilda 
to  appear.  He  was  afraid  to  approach  the  house  and 
knock  lest  he  should  destroy  her  chances  of  escape. 
Then  he  remembered  her  girlish  escapade  of  climbing 
down  the  roof,  and  thought  perchance  she  might  have 
recourse  to  the  same  method  again.  He  heard  the 
horses  munching  their  food  in  their  stalls,  and  wondered 
if  it  could  be  that,  not  findiiig  him  at  his  post,  she  might 
not  have  saddled  her  horse  and  fled  without  waiting  for 
his  aid.  It  was  like  her  to  do  so.  She  was  not  the  girl 
to  sit  quietly  and  meet  an  evil  fate.  The  cold  stung 
him  as  he  waited  and  speculated  on  his  strange  posi- 
tion. Should  he  go  or  stay  ?  He  had  forgotten  those 
whom  he  had  come  to  circumvent ;  he  thought  only  of 
the  girl  whom  he  meant  to  succor.  He  had  almost  lost 
hope,  but  still  he  waited.  Something  had  evidently 
gone  wrong  !  He  did  not  know  the  time,  but  it  was 
past  nine  o'clock,  for  the  lights  were  all  extinguished. 
He  had  just  decided  to  wait  no  longer  when  he  heard  a 
sound  tliat  put  all  thought  of  leaving  out  of  his  mind. 

There  was  a  step  upon  the  gravel  walk  beyond  the 
carriage-house  —  soft  and  stealthy,  but  a  man's  step — 
then  another.  Then  two  men  came  from  beyond  the 
carriage-house  bearing  something  between  them.  Very 
cautiously  they  passed  through  the  open  gate  within  a 
yard  of  where  he  stood,  and  went  round  the  rear  of  the 
building  to  the  other  side  of  the  wing.  What  was  it 
they  were  carrying  ?    He  could  not  imagine.     He  waited 


494  HOT  PL 0  W8HABE8. 

till  they  had  passed  out  of  sight,  and  then  stole  softly 
along  and  peered  around  the  corner  of  the  house.  Not 
twenty  feet  away  two  men  were  raising  a  ladder  to  the 
roof  beneath  Hilda's  window\  The  whole  scheme  flashed 
upon  him  at  a  glance.  The  other  man  was  waiting  in 
the  carriage.  These  were  to  bring  the  girl,  and  before 
morning  poor  Hilda  w^ould  be  on  her  way  to  servitude 
without  hope  of  rescue.  It  all  depended  upon  him. 
He  was  one  to  two — aye,  one  to  three,  and  unarmed 
at  that.  But  then  he  had  been  a  champion  wrestler  at 
old  Bowdoin  in  his  youth.  He  had  grown  up  a  fisher- 
man's son  on  the  coast  of  Maine,  and  had  matched  his 
muscle  against  wind  and  tide  in  many  a  storm.  He 
would  do  what  he  could.  But  for  his  remissness  Hilda 
would  have  been  beyond  danger  now.  He  had  no  idea 
what  he  would  do.  A  thousand  plans  flashed  through 
his  mind.     He  did  nothing — only  waited. 

One  man  was  half-way  up  the  ladder  when  a  stone 
fell  from  the  orchard  wall  not  a  rod  from  where  he  stood. 
There  was  a  rustle  in  the  bushes,  too.  The  man  upon 
the  ladder  paused.  The  watcher  at  the  corner  could 
hear  their  words  as  they  whispered  to  each  other  in  the 
chill  night  air. 

"  What 's  that.  Colonel  ?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"Nothing,  I  reckon — a  stone  loosened  by  the  frost,  or 
a  eat,  maybe." 

They  waited  a  moment  more,  then  the  man  ascended. 
"  Now,"  thought  the  minister,  "  is  my  time,"  and  yet  he 
hesitated.  He  felt  a  stone  beneath  his  foot,  and  reached 
down  and  picked  it  up.  He  clutched  it  eagerly  in  his 
right  hand.  It  made  a  deadly  weapon  in  that  brawny 
fist.  He  felt  himself  a  match  for  the  man  at  the  foot 
of  the  ladder,  however  he  might  be  armed.  He  took  a 
step  forward,  then  paused,  holding  his  hand  before  him 
irresolutely.     "No,"   he  thought,    "I  will  not  subject 


THE  C BURGH  MILITANT.  495 

myself  to  temptation.  Only  as  a  last  resort  will  I  use  a 
weapon."  He  dropped  the  stone  in  the  pocket  of  his 
overcoat. 

There  was  a  low,  tremulous  moan.  The  man  at  the 
foot  of  the  ladder  ran  quickly  up  to  the  eaves.  The 
minister  sprang  forward  and  saw  the  other  one  step  out 
of  the  window  of  Hilda's  room  with  a  limp,  white  figure 
in  his  arms. 

"She's  all  right.  Colonel,"  he  heard  him  say.  "She 
won't  make  no  more  fuss.  You  jes'  steddy  the  ladder 
while  I  bring  her  down." 

The  minister  stood  spell-bound.  The  horror  of  the 
scene  overpowered  his  faculties.  He  could  neither  move 
nor  cry  out.  One  man  was  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder  and 
the  other  half-way  down  before  he  awoke  to  the  neces- 
sity of  instant  action.  Colonel  Eighmie  heard  a  step, 
and  turned  his  head  quickly  over  his  shoulder,  still 
keeping  his  grasp  upon  the  ladder.  The  minister  took 
five  steps  like  a  whirlwind,  and  his  fist  fell  with  the 
force  of  a  sledge-hammer  at  the  base  of  Eighmie's  ear. 

"  Scoundrels  !  Kidnappers  !"  he  hissed  through  his 
set  teeth. 

Eighmie  staggered  and  fell,  half  overturning  the  lad- 
der as  he  did  so. 

"  No  ye  don't,"  said  the  voice  of  Barnes,  as  he  sprang 
up  the  ladder  with  his  limp  burden. 

It  was  too  late.  Hardly  had  he  reached  the  eaves 
when  the  ladder,  disturbed  by  the  fall  of  Eighmie, 
slipped,  turned,  and  the  top  began  to  slide  slowly  along 
the  tin  gutter  against  which  it  rested.  Barnes  saw  that 
he  must  drop  the  girl  or  fall  with  her  to  the  ground  and 
into  the  hands  of  he  knew  not  how  many  enemies.  It 
did  not  take  him  long  to  decide  between  a  negro  girl 
and  himself.  In  an  instant  his  arms  were  free ;  and, 
clutching  the  ladder  with  one  hand  and  the  spouting 
with  the  other,  he   threw  his  feet  against  the  upright 


496  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

•portion  of  the  huilding  and  swung  himself  hghtly  upon 
the  roof  which  he  had  lately  quitted.  Gilbert  Anderson 
looking  upward,  saw  the  Avhite  figure  as  it  fell,  and 
springing  forward,  caught  it  before  it  reached  the 
ground.  The  shock  brought  him  to  his  knees,  but  he 
rallied  and  started  to  run  toward  where  his  horse  was 
waiting.  As  he  did  so,  Barnes,  who  began  to  realize 
the  weakness  of  the  attacking  party,  and  who,  even 
when  engaged  in  an  unlawful  enterprise,  was,  as  he  had 
quietly  declared,  "no  part  of  a  coward,"  swung  down 
from  the  eave-spout  and  dropped  to  the  ground.  Anderson 
had  just  turned  the  corner  when  he  started  in  pursuit. 
He  was  a  little  shaken  by  his  fall,  and  not  noticing  the 
ladder  which  lay  in  his  way  he  stumbled  over  it,  and 
fell  heavily  to  the  grountl.  By  the  time  he  reached  the 
corner  of  the  house  Anderson  was  almost  out  of  sight. 
Only  a  flutter  of  white  down  the  lane  served  to  guide 
him  in  his  pursuit. 

Even  with  the  burden  which  he  bore  Anderson  would 
have  found  it  easy  to  outstrip  his  pursuer  had  he  gone 
up  the  hill  instead  of  trj'ing  to  utilize  his  buggy  as  a 
means  of  escape.  The  time  occupied  in  placing  the 
half-unconscious  girl  in  the  vehicle  enabled  Barnes, 
who  had  no  idea  of  yielding  peaceable  possession  of  his 
booty,  to  approach  almost  within  striking  distance  be- 
fore Anderson  could  back  his  horse  out  of  the  bushes  and 
take  his  seat  in  the  buggy.  He  stood  holding  the  reins 
in  his  left  hand,  which  also  supported  the  young  girl 
upon  the  seat.  His  right  hand  clasped  the  stone  in  the 
pocket  of  his  overcoat.  He  could  just  see  the  outlines 
of  the  man's  figure  as  he  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the 
pines.  The  right  hind  wheel  of  the  buggy  was  between 
them. 

"Halt!"  shouted  Barnes.  "Give  up  that  gal  or  I 
fire  1" 

The  hand  flew  from  the  pocket ;  the  stone  whistled 


THE  CHURCH  MILITANT.  497 

tlu'ough  the  air ;  there  was  a  flash,  a  shriek ;  the  minis- 
ter sprang  into  the  buggy,  and  the  sparks  flew  out  of 
the  cold  rocks  along  the  wood-road  as  the  frightened 
bay  sped  homeward.  The  figure  that  lay  across  his 
lap,  hidden  by  the  robe,  moaned  and  shivered,  but 
never  once  replied  to  his  repeated  assurances  of  safety. 
When  he  reached  the  highway  Anderson  raised  the. cover 
of  the  buggy  but  did  not  check  the  speed  of  the  excited 
horse  until  the  wheels  rattled  up  the  entrance  to  his 
own  barn.  Then  he  leaped  out,  looked  carefully  around, 
and,  taking  the  girl  in  his  arms,  he  bore  her  into  the 
house.  As  he  laid  her  upon  the  lounge  in  the  cosy  sit- 
ting-room his  wife  saw  that  his  hands  Avere  stained  with 
blood.  As  he  stood  looking  at  the  ominous  stain  she 
sprang  forward,  and,  lifting  the  bowed  head,  they  gazed 
into  the  thin,  pinched  face,  now  bloodless  and  pallid,  of 
'Amy  Hargrove, 

"Why,  husband  !"  cried  the  wife,  "  this  is  not  Hilda! 
What  does  it  all  mean  ?'' 

"I— I— don't— know!"  said  the  minister  in  amaze- 
ment. I^or  did  it  matter.  A  physician  who  was  soon 
called  pronounced  the  wound  dangerous,  and  prescribed 
silence,  darkness  and  the  strictest  care.  The  bullet  of 
the  slave-catcher  had  just  missed  the  heart  of  the 
informer. 

Ten  o'clock  brought  the  southward  train  and  the  full 
moon.  Other  strangers  came  likewise  to  Burlingdale. 
The  battered  sign  that  hung  at  the  door  of  the  unpre- 
tentious inn  creaked  on  its  hinges  in  surprise  as  they 
passed  beneath  it.  The  rooms  were  full  for  once,  and 
the  smiling  landlord  thought  to  himself,  as  he  looked 
over  his  register,  that  a  fugitive  slave  Avas  almost  as 
good  for  an  inn-keeper  as  a  circus.  Two  of  the  new- 
comers were  evidently  officials.  They  had  that  unmis- 
takable uniform  of  self-importance  that  leads  one  to  con- 


498  HO  T  PLO  WSHARES. 

sider  whether  Hfe  would  be  worth  Mving  should  reform 
at  length  fix  the  limits  of  life  as  the  measure  of  official 
tenure.  They  inquired  for  Mr.  Eighmie,  and  when  told 
that  he  was  not  in  looked  knowingly  at  each  other. 

They  were  the  United  States  marshal  for  the  district 
and  his  deputy.  They  had  a  warrant  under  the  broad 
seal  of  the  District  Court  running  in  the  name  of  the 
Chief  Justice  of  the  United  States,  commanding  them  to 
take  the  body  of  a  certain  slave-girl  Hilda,  otherwise 
known  as  Hilda  Hargrove.  They  evidently  understood 
the  situation,  or  thought  they  did,  for  after  some  re- 
freshment they  started  out  on  foot  toward  the  seminary. 
A  young  man  had  taken  the  same  direction  a  few 
minutes  before.  He  turned  off  into  the  wood-road  ;  they 
advanced  straight  on,  arid,  turning  into  the  grounds, 
walked  up  the  avenue  to  the  house.  Just  as  they  reached 
it  they  met  Marsden  and  Eighmie.  There  was  a  hurried 
consultation,  not  altogether  pleasing  to  the  officer  of  the 
law  as  it  seemed.     After  a  moment  he  said  angrily  : 

"So  it  seems,  gentlemen,  that  instead  of  waiting  for 
the  assistance  of  the  law  you  have  attempted  an  abduc- 
tion and  been  roughly  handled." 

"We  found  the  girl  was  about  to  escape,  sir,"  said 
Marsden. 

"Very  likely,"  said  the  marshal,  incredulously. 

"Oh,  but  we  did,  sir  !"  said  Eighmie  seriously. 

"Well,  even  if  you  did,  it  is  no  excuse  for  your  viola- 
tion of  the  law.     I  can  have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"But  the  girl,  sir,"  said  Eighmie,  "and  the  rascals 
who  set  upon  us  ?" 

"  I  understand  you  took  the  girl  out  of  the  house,  and 
she  was  then  taken  from  you  ?" 

"Yes;  and  there  was  a  shot  fired,  and  we  believe 
Barnes  must  have  been  killed." 

"Very  likely.  People  who  will  insist  on  being  kid- 
nappers must  expect  to  get  their  necks  broken.     I  will 


THE  CHURCH  MILITANT.  499 

have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  There  is  no  use  of  disturb- 
ing the  seminary  people  any  more.  Indeed,  you  have 
disturbed  them  too  much  now  for  your  own  good.  I 
should  advise  you,  gentlemen,  to  make  yourselves  scarce 
before  morning." 

"Just  what  I've  been  telling  him,"  said  Marsden 
quickly,  "  but  he  won't  take  any  advice." 

"I  will  not  go  until  I  know  the  fate  of  Barnes,"  said 
Eighmie  stubbornly.  "  I  may  have  acted  imprudently. 
If  I  have  violated  the  law,  I  am  ready  to  sufter  for  it ; 
but  I  will  not  desert  a  man  who  shared  the  danger  at 
my  request." 

"Helpl  Murder!  Help  !"  came  from  the  wood-road 
as  he  spoke. 

They  all  ran  quickly  in  the  direction  of  the  sound. 
In  the  middle  of  the  lane,  by  the  little  clump  of  ever- 
greens near  which  the  minister's  horse  had  stood,  a 
man  was  kneeling  and  supporting  on  his  arm  the  head 
of  another.  The  moon  was  shining  full  upon  the  face 
of  the  prostrate  man.  They  scrambled  over  the  wall, 
the  marshal  and  his  deputy  ahead,  the  others  following. 

"Barnes  !"  said  Marsden,  as  soon  as  he  caught  sight 
of  the  face.  He  knelt  down  and  put  a  hand  upon  his 
breast.     "Dead!" 

The  man  who  was  supporting  the  other  had  no  hat. 
His  face  was  pale,  and  his  teeth  chattered  as  he  looked 
from  one  to  another  of  the  observers. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?"  he  asked. 

"It  means  murder,  young  man  —  that's  what  it 
means  !"  said  Eighmie  excitedly. 

"Murder?" 

"  Yes,  murder." 

"  "Who  could  have  done  it  ?" 

"  You  were  the  first  that  found  it  out  it  seems,"  said 
Marsden,  with  a  sneer. 

"I?" 


500  HOT  PL 0  WSlIARES. 

"  Yes,  you !" 

"But  I  know  nothing  about  it.  I  stumbled  over  him 
as  I  came  along  just  now," 

"  Just  now  ?"  said  Marsden,  still  sneering.  "  This  is 
a  pretty  time  of  night  for  a  stroll,  ain't  it  ?" 

The  young  man  laid  the  dead  man's  head  carefully 
upon  the  ground,  and,  rising,  folded  his  arms,  and  said 
with  dignity : 

"Gentlemen,  if  any  one  has  any  suspicion  of  me,  I 
am  willing  to  answer  to  the  law  ;  but  I  will  not  endure 
such  remarks  from  any  but  an  officer  of  the  law." 

"You  are  right,  too,"  said  the  marshal.  "I  am  an 
officer — the  United  States  Marshal.  When  did  you  find 
this  body  ?" 

"Just  a  moment  ago." 

"What  were  you  doing  here  at  this  hour  ?" 

The  young  man's  face  flushed,  and  he  stammered  as 
he  tried  to  answer. 

"  Tell  the  truth,"  said  the  marshal,  "  or  do  not  speak 
at  all.     Where  is  your  hat  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered  confusedly.  "It  must 
have  fallen  off  when  I  stumbled." 

"Quite  likely,"  said  Marsden,  with  a  sneer.  "Per- 
haps this  is  it  ?" 

He  drew  a  crushed  and  battered  hat  from  under  his 
knee  beside  the  dead  man  as  he  spoke.  The  other 
assented  silently  by  taking  it,  brushing  off  the  dust  and 
striving  to  restore  it  to  its  original  shape.  It  was  sodden 
on  one  side.  His  hand  was  moistened  as  he  brushed, 
and  he  carelessly  wiped  it  against  his  sleeve. 

The  marshal  watched  him  keenly. 

"What  is  your  name  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Martin  Kortright." 

"That  is  he,"  said  Eighmie  excitedly.  "I  knew  he 
was  one  of  her  friends.  He  did  it,  you  may  be  sure. 
He  's  her  lover,  sir." 


THE  CHURCH  MILITANT.  501 

"Hers— whose  ?" 

"  Hilda's — the  girl  we  're  after— the  one  we  had  when 
we  were  attacked." 

''  What  of  her  ?  Where  is  she  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?" 
said  Martin,  striding  over  the  prostrate  form  and  clutch- 
ing the  arm  of  Eighmie. 

"Stand  off!"  said  Eighmie.  "Stand  off!  Oh,  you 
know  where  she  is!  And  you  know  about  this,  too," 
pointing  to  the  body  of  Barnes.  "  Why  don't  you  arrest 
him,  Mr.  Marshal  ?    Are  you  going  to  let  him  escape  ?" 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  I  must  arrest  both  him  and  you, 
gentlemen.  This  is  a  matter  for  the  state  courts ;  but, 
as  a  felony  has  been  committed,  if  not  two,  I  must  take 
you  into  custody  and  deliver  you  to  the  state  authori- 
ties.    Come." 

As  he  turned  there  was  a  rush  into  the  undergrowth 
at  the  road-side,  and  Marsden  fled  up  the  mountain-side. 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  officer  to  his  deputy,  "we 
will  hold  these  two.  The  fool  thinks  he  can  get  away, 
but  he  hasn't  a  ghost  of  a  chance." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  Martin's  shoulder  as  he  spoke, 
and  the  deputy  in  like  manner  took  hold  of  Eighmie. 

"You  need  not  hold  me,"  said  Eighmie.  "  I  will  go 
wherever  you  wish." 

"  So  will  I,"  said  Martin. 

"Come  on  then,  gentlemen,"  said  the  marshal;  "but 
let  us  see  if  this  poor  fellow  is  really  dead.  Take  hold, 
and  let  us  carry  him  to  the  seminary." 

The  officers  and  their  prisoners  bore  the  inanimate 
form  carefully  around  to  the  front  of  the  building,  and 
laid  him  down  upon  the  broad,  white  steps  just  as  a  car- 
riage drove  up,  and  the  mistress  of  Beechwood  aUghted. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

CLEANSED  FROM  BLOOD-GUILTINESS. 

"Dead  ?  Impossible  !"  was  the  exclamation  of  Miss 
Hunniwell,  after  a  hurried  explanation  by  the  marshal. 
"  Who  could  have  killed  him  ?" 

"We  have  felt  bound  to  hold  this  3'oung  man,  who 
was  found  with  the  body,"  said  the  marshal  almost 
apologetically. 

The  lady  glanced  keenly  at  Martin  and  asked,  with 
that  mixture  of  command  and  interrogation  which  the 
successful  teacher  is  sure  to  acquire : 

"Who  found  him  with  it  ?" 

"  Well,  I  and  my  deputy — that  is,  he  gave  the  alarm 
and  we  ran  to  the  place  and  found  him  supporting  this 
man's  head." 

"  And  you — where  were  you  when  he  called  ?" 

"  We  were  just  entering  the  grounds." 

"Just  entering  these  grounds!  Why,  how  long  ago 
did  this  happen  ?" 

"  Only  a  short  time — perhaps  twenty  minutes." 

"  And  pray,  sir,  what  were  you  doing  on  my  premises 
at  this  hour  of  the  night  ?" 

"I  am  the  United  States  Marshal  for  this  district," 
said  the  official,  somewhat  pompously. 

"Well?"  ejaculated  the  unrelenting  inquisitor,  as 
she  looked  down  upon  him  from  the  steps. 

The  moonlight  showed  a  flush  upon  his  cheek  as  he 
answered : 

"I  have  a  warrant  for  the  arrest  of  a  certain  fugitive 
slave,  and  was  directed  by  the  claimant  to  meet  him 
here  upon  the  arrival  of  the  train," 


CLEANSED  FB  OM  BL  0  OB-  G  UIL  TIN  ESS.      503 

"  And  this  young  man — who  is  he  ?" 

"I  am  Martin  Kortright,  ma'am,"  said  he,  answer- 
ing for  himself,  and  removing  his  hat  as  he  did  so. 

"Ah!  I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you,"  she  said,  step- 
ping forward  and  giving  him  her  hand.  "You  came 
upon  the  train  in  answer  to  my  telegram  V 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  replied. 

"  And  you  came  out  here — why  ?" 

"I  was  somewhat  alarmed  by  your  dispatch,  and 
thought  I  would  come  and  look  at  the  place  Avithout 
waiting  for  morning." 

"  I  see  ;  and  in  so  doing  you  fell  among  thieves,"  said 
the  lady  severely.  "  I  do  not  understand  what  has  taken 
place  in  my  absence,"  she  continued,  "but  whether 
this  man  be  dead  or  alive,  this  is  not  a  fit  place  for  him  to 
remain.     Bring  him  in." 

She  had  rung  the  bell  on  her  arrival,  and  a  teacher 
with  a  pallid  face  that  told  of  the  teiTors  that  had  af- 
flicted the  gentle  flock  at  Beechwood  during  the  absence 
of  the  mistress,  now  answered  her  summons.  Miss  Hun- 
niwell  took  the  candle  from  her  trembling  hand,  and, 
standing  beside  the  open  door,  motioned  to  the  men  to 
enter.  As  they  ascended  the  steps  she  directed  her 
coachman  to  drive  at  once  for  a  physician  and  an  officer 
of  the  law. 

The  latter  portion  of  her  message  was  altogether  need- 
less. The  anger  of  the  good  minister  had  grown  into  a 
flame  when  he  learned  the  gravity  of  Amy's  hurt.  How 
the  mistake  should  have  arisen,  or  whether  it  was  a  mis- 
take, he  could  not  tell.  The  more  he  thought  upon  it 
the  stronger  grew  his  suspicion  that  Hilda  was  yet  in 
danger.  He  lost  no  time,  therefore,  in  letting  certain 
of  his  neighbors,  including  the  officers  of  the  law  in  the 
village,  know  that  a  crime  had  been  committed.  The 
fear  which  he  had  entertained  for  a  time  as  to  the  re- 
sult of  his  own.  action  had  passed  away,  and  he  now 


504  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

only  felt  a  renewed  anxiety  for  the  safety  of  Hilda  and 
the  capture  of  her  abductors.  The  atmosphere  of  the 
httle  village  was  already  charged  with  explosive  mate- 
rial. The  presence  of  the  slave-hunters  and  something 
of  the  nature  of  their  errand  was  well  known  in  the 
town,  and  in  many  a  household  the  evening  prayer  that 
night  had  contained  an  especially  earnest  petition  for 
"them  that  are  in  bonds."  The  whole  village  seemed 
to  rest  in  anticipation  of  exciting  events.  Men  and 
women  were  awake  and  eager  to  know  what  had  hap- 
pened. Almost  before  he  knew  it  the  good  minister 
found  himself  returning  to  the  scene  of  the  night's  ad- 
venture with  a  band  of  resolute  men,  whose  action  was 
all  the  more  significant  because  there  were  no  threats 
or  boasts  to  be  heard  among  them.  The  constable  had 
a  pistol,  or  was  supposed  to  have  one,  but  except  for 
walking-sticks  and  extemporized  clubs  wrenched  from 
picket-fences  or  cut  with  the  ever-ready  pocket-knife 
from  the  overhanging  elms  that  lined  the  streets,  very 
few  of  them  were  armed.  As  they  approached  the 
place  where  the  road  leading  to  the  seminary  turned 
off  to  the  left  the  sound  of  a  vehicle  rapidly  driven  over 
the  frozen  ground  reached  their  ears.  Then  the  hoof- 
strokes  of  a  double  team  were  heard  upon  the  bridge. 
Some  boys  who  had  pushed  on  ahead  of  the  main  com- 
pany gave  the  alarm. 

"That's  them!"  "It's  Bassett's  grays!"  "The 
kidnappers  !"  and  other  like  cries  were  heard  as  the 
boys  leaped  the  fences  and  sought  shelter  from  attack. 
Instinctively  the  men  formed  a  line  across  the  road, 
and  as  the  wagon  rolled  out  of  the  darkness  of  the 
covered  bridge  into  the  moonlight,  Marsden,  who  was 
the  sole  occupant  of  the  carriage,  could  distinctly  see 
their  earnest  faces  and  the  hurried  preparations  that 
were  being  made  to  obstruct  his  course.  For  an  instant 
he  half-checked  the  horses  in  their  sweeping  trot.    Then 


CLEANSED  FR OM  BL 0 OU-  G  UILT1NES8.       505 

he  saw  that  it  was  too  late.  There  was  no  room  to  turn. 
He  might  burst  through.  At  all  events  it  was  his  only 
chance.  The  obstruction  was  forty  yards  away,  and  once 
past  that  barrier  it  was  only  twenty  miles  to  the  state 
line.  Behind  him  was — he  knew  not  what  of  danger. 
He  drew  the  reins  tighter,  and  gave  the  lash  to  the 
sprightly  grays.  As  he  neared  the  line  the  men  wavered. 
It  was  no  light  matter  to  stand  in  the  way  of  the  infuri- 
ated team.  Marsden  rose  up,  lashed  the  horses,  and  gave 
a  shrill  yell  of  defiance.  Just  before  he  reached  the  corner 
a  new  barrier  suddenly  arose  across  his  way.  Two  men 
had  lifted  a  white  picket  gate  from  its  hinges,  and  now 
held  it  suspended  between  them  above  the  roadAvay. 
Seeing  their  purpose,  a  dozen  sprang  to  their  aid.  It 
was  impassable,  reaching  high  above  the  horses'  heads, 
and  shifting  to  this  side  and  that  as  their  course  seemed 
to  vary.  The  only  chance  was  to  try  and  break  it  down. 
He  headed  the  horses  square  against  it.  The  pole 
burst  through  the  narrow  palings.  The  men  who  held 
it  were  thrown  down,  but  the  frame  of  the  gate  was 
against  the  horses'  legs.  Their  feet  were  caught  be- 
tween the  slats.  They  stumbled  and  fell.  A  dozen 
hands  seized  the  wheels  before  they  had  ceased  to  re- 
volve. Marsden,  thrown  forward  and  half-stunned,  was 
a  prisoner  before  he  had  time  to  draw  a  weapon,  and 
was  marched  off,  with  his  hands  tied,  to  the  town-hall 
under  charge  of  a  trusty  guard. 

His  attempt  at  escape  had  failed.  After  climbing 
the  hill-side  a  short  distance,  he  had  realized  the  fu- 
tility of  trying  to  escape  in  that  manner,  and  stealing 
back  to  the  road,  had  sought  to  use  the  method  which 
had  been  decided  upon  in  case  of  success,  without  wait- 
ing to  ascertain  any  more  definitely  the  fate  of  his  com- 
panions. 

After  this  the  company,  now  much  diminished  in  num- 
bers, moved  on.     Meeting  the  coachman  from  the  semi- 


506  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

naiy,  the  minister  asked  him  a  few  hurried  questions,  to 
which  the  man  gave  most  confusing  replies.  All  that  he 
could  gather  from  him  was  that  some  one  was  dead,  or 
at  least  badly  injured,  at  the  seminary,  and  he  had  been 
sent  for  the  doctor.  Directing  him  where  the  physi- 
cian might  be  found,  they  proceeded.  Before  they 
reached  the  grounds  the  carriage  passed  them  on  its  re- 
turn. Then  they  halted  for  consultation,  and  it  was 
determined  that  the  better  way  would  be  to  quietly  sur- 
round the  building,  after  which  the  constable  and  a  few 
others  should  go  forward  to  reconnoitre.  Nothing  could 
be  done,  that  worthy  said,  until  a  warrant  was  issued. 
This  the  justice  would  fill  out  upon  the  minister's  in- 
formation as  soon  as  he  could  procure  the  names  of  the 
kidnappers  from  the  register  at  the  hotel.  All  they 
could  do  in  the  meantime  was  merely  to  prevent  the 
escape  of  the  offenders.  So  the  mob  waited  in  patient 
silence  for  the  ponderous  wheels  of  the  law  to  move 
round. 

While  these  things  were  occurring  in  the  village  an 
equally  strange  scene  had  been  enacted  in  the  semi- 
nary. Following  the  direction  of  Miss  Hunniwell  the 
men  bore  their  unconscious  burden  along  the  hall  and 
into  one  of  the  reception-rooms,  leaving  a  row  of  crim- 
son drops  from  the  door  to  the  side  of  a  low  settle  on 
which  she  directed  that  he  should  be  placed.  Won- 
dering eyes  and  pallid  faces  jjeered  over  the  banisters 
above  at  this  strange  procession.  Water  was  brought 
and  a  sponge ;  and  Miss  Hunniwell,  tucking  back  her 
lace-edged  sleeves,  took  the  basin  and  washed  the  blood 
from  the  coarse  pale  face.  As  she  did  so  she  noted  a  soft, 
uncertain  breath.  The  marshal  found  a  dim  pulsation  at 
the  wrist  also.  The  left  temple  was  crushed  and  torn. 
Out  of  the  severed  fibres  came  a  slender,  fitful  stream 
of  red.  Martin  pressed  his  finger  hard  upon  a  point 
just  in  front  of  and  above  the  ear  and  it  ceased.     Then 


CLEANSED  FU  OM  BL  0  OB-  G  UIL  2  IN  ESS.      507 

they  poured  a  little  brandy  down  his  throat.  His  res- 
piration became  more  regular  and  decided.  Then  the 
surgeon  came — a  gruft',  fearless  man,  with  the  freedom 
of  speech  and  positiveness  of  manner  that  the  old  coun- 
try practitioner  gets.  He  examined  the  wounded  man 
carefully  ;  tried  the  skull,  to  find  any  fracture  or  depres- 
sion; caught  up  the  severed  artery  and  dressed  the 
wound. 

"He'll  get  along,"  said  he  grimly,  when  his  exami- 
nation was  completed.  "A  concussion  of  the  brain  with 
a  considerable  loss  of  blood.  That 's  what  saved  him 
probably,  though  it  has  left  him  weak.  It  was  a  close 
call — would  have  killed  most  men ;  but  these  cattle  never 
die  when  they  ought  to." 

"  Can  he  be  removed  ?"  inquired  Eighmie  anxiously. 

"  When,  to-night  V"  asked  the  physician,  looking  keenly 
at  his  interrogator. 

"Yes." 

"No  indeed!" 

"  When  do  you  think  ?" 

"Well,  I  should  say  fully  as  soon  as  his  employer 
will  be  likely  to  have  any  use  for  him." 

"I  don't  understand  you,  sir." 

"You  probably  will  before  you  are  through  with  to- 
night's business." 

"I  am  ready  to  answer  for  all  my  acts,  sir,"  said 
Eighmie  somewhat  defiantly. 

"  Oh  yes  !"  sneered  the  doctor,  "  we  've  heard  of  your 
Southern  bravado  before,  but  you  '11  need  something 
more  'n  that  this  time,  or  I  'm  mistaken." 

"Come,  come,  gentlemen,"  said  the  marshal,  "this 
is  no  place  to  discuss  these  things.  What  we  want  to 
know  and  what  Miss  Hunniwell  wants  to  know  is,  what 
we  had  better  do  with  this  man." 

"If  you  ask  my  opinion  as  a  Tiiau,"  said  the  doctor 
savagely,  "  I  would  say  pitch  the  carrion  out-doors  and 


508  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

cheat  the  gallows  by  letting  him  die,  before  he  has  a 
chance  to  be  hanged." 

"  That  is  the  humanity  of  which  the  Yankee  is  for- 
ever prating,"  said  Eighmie  sneeringly. 

"A  fair  match  for  the  chivalry  of  which  you  boast," 
hissed  the  doctor  in  reply.  " If  I  ain't  mistaken  you're 
the  man  that  came  here  to  drag  a  young  girl  into  slavery 
after  killing  her  father." 

"  The  man  who  claimed  to  be  her  father  was  killed." 

"Yes,  shot  in  the  back  without  being  allowed  to  sur- 
render." 

"But  that  was  in  the  heat  of  passion,  sir.  All  our 
good  people  regret  it  now." 

"And  do  you  suppose  that  we  have  no  heat  of  pas- 
sion ?  Damn  it,  sir '."'cried  the  doctor,  white  with 
wrath  and  striding  toward  Eighmie,  "I'd  be  very  glad 
to  help  hang  the  whole  of  your  hellish  crowd  to  a  tree 
without  judge  or  jury." 

"  See  here,  doctor !"  said  the  marshal,  stepping  be- 
tween them  ;  "what  is  the  matter  ?  I  never  saw  you  in 
such  a  mood  as  this  before.  I  thought  you  were  a 
moderate,  reasonable  man." 

"Don't  talk  to  me  of  reason.  Everybody  knows  I  've 
never  been  an  Abolitionist  or  anything  of  the  kind,  but 
I  've  seen  that  to-night  that  makes  me  actually  blood- 
thirsty. I  'm  a  law-abiding  man,  but,  as  certain  as  God 
lives,  if  the  girl  dies,  I  'm  ready  to  make  one  of  a  crowd 
to  hang  every  scoundrel  that  had  a  hand  in  this  business 
higher  than  Ilaman." 

"Doctor,  you  are  raving,"  said  the  marshal,  pushing 
him  back. 

"  Oh,  I  am,  am  I  ?"  said  the  doctor.  "  Well,  let  me 
tell  you,  sir,  I  mean  every  word  of  it,  and  I  don't  draw 
any  distinction  between  a  Southern  slave-hunter  and  a 
Northern  nigger-catcher,  either." 

"If  you  mean  me,   sir,"  said  the  marshal  angrily, 


CLEANSED  FR  OM  EL  0  OB-  0  UIL  TLNES8.      509 

"I  came  here  to  perform  a  sworn  duty.  I  am  just  as 
much  bound  to  execute  the  law  as  you  are  to  obey  it.  I 
have  no  more  interest  in  this  matter  than  you." 

"Except  double  fees  in  case  of  conviction,"  sneered 
the  doctor. 

"  I  didn't  make  the  law,"  said  the  other  doggedly. 

"Ko,  you  only  volunteered  to  do  the  dirty  work  that 
was  cut  out  for  you." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  murder,  doctor  ?"  asked  Miss 
Hunniwell,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  looking 
into  his  face  with  anxious  solicitude. 

"Where  have  you  been  to-night,  madam?"  inquired 
the  doctor,  turning  sharply  upon  her. 

She  stammered,  and  her  face  flushed.  She  was  not 
used  to  prevarication,  and  yet  she  dare  not  reveal  the 
truth. 

"I — I — have — been  out  with  a  friend — I  have  just  re- 
turned." 

"Oh,  I  see!"  he  said  incredulously.  "So  you  don't 
know  what  these  gentlemen  have  been  about  here  at 
Beechwood  in  your  absence  ?" 

"I  can  only  imagine  that  it  must  be  something  very 
terrible." 

"  Terrible  ?  Yes,  I  should  think  so.  Well,  I  don't 
know  all  about  it  myself,  but  I  do  know  that  these  nig- 
ger-hunting gentry  have  made  it  just  about  an  even 
chance  whether  one  of  your  girls  lives  to  see  the  sun 
rise  or  not." 

"Is  it  Hilda — Hilda  Hargrove  ?"  asked  Martin,  im- 
petuously grasping  the  doctor's  arm  as  he  spoke. 

"No,  it  wasn't  Hilda — 'twas  the  other  one — the  little 
black-eyed  creature  that  Avas  always  with  her." 

"  Amy  ?"  asked  the  teacher. 

"  Yes,  that 's  her  name." 

"  But  Hilda — where  is  Hilda  then  ?"  persisted  Martin, 
keeping  his  hold  upon  the  doctor's  arm. 


510  HOT  PL  0  WSHARE8. 

"That  I  can't  tell  j-ou,  young  man,  if  you  shake  me 
all  night.  Perhaps  this  gentleman  can  give  you  some 
information,"  jerking  his  thumb  toward  Eighmie  as  he 
spoke.  "Whether  they  made  a  mistake,  or  thought  it 
just  as  cheap  to  kidnap  two  girls  as  one,  I  don't  know, 
but  I  guess  they  '11  have  a  chance  to  explain  before 
they  've  done  with  it." 

Martin  turned  toward  Eighmie,  but  as  he  was  about 
to  speak  he  felt  the  teacher's  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Do  not  be  troubled,"  she  whispered  hastily  ;  "  Hilda 
is  safe." 

While  this  was  passing  footsteps  were  heard  advanc- 
ing along  the  hall.     The  constable  entered,  and  said : 

"  I  have  a  warrant  for  Sherwood  Eighmie." 

"  That  is  my  name,"  said  Eighmie,  stepping  forward. 

"Also,"  said  the  constable,  "for  James  S.  Barnes." 

Eighmie  pointed  to  the  Avounded  man. 

"  Not  able  to  be  moved  ?"  asked  the  constable  of  the 
doctor. 

"Not  under  a  week — more  likely  a  fortnight,"  said 
the  physician. 

"Well,  come  on,  then,"  to  Eighmie. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  the  other.  Then,  turning  to 
the  doctor,  he  produced  a  roll  of  bills,  and  said  earn- 
estly: "Doctor,  I  don't  know  how  this  thing  is  going 
to  end,  but  I  want  you  to  see  that  this  man  is  taken 
care  of.  He  was  injured  in  my  service,  and  I  must  not 
desert  him." 

"Oh,  I  will  see  that  he  is  cared  for,"  said  the  doctor, 
though  he  isn't  worth  it.  Give  the  money  to  ^liss  Hun- 
niwell,  sir.  She  will  need  to  get  nurses  and  delicacies. 
Never  mind  me.  I  wouldn't  work  a  bit  better  for  all 
the  money  in  your  purse.  After  it 's  all  over  I  '11  put 
in  my  bill.  But  you  may  rest  assured  that  I  will  do 
my  very  best  for  the  poor  devil  professionally,  though, 


CLEANSED  FR  OM  BL  0  OD-  G  UILTINE8S.      511 

personally,  I  houestly  think  no  man  ever  needed  hanging 
worse  than  he." 

"What  he  did,"  said  Eighmie,  "was  at  my  instiga- 
tion. I  won't  shirk  any  responsibility,  whatever  the 
result." 

"Well,  I  will  say  that  is  a  manly  thing,"  said  the 
doctor  heartily,  "and  I  do  hope  that  we  have  seen  the 
worst  side  of  this  night's  work." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Eighmie  simply.  "I  would  like 
to  ask  a  favor  of  you  if  I  might." 

"  Anything  I  can  honestly  do  in  your  behalf  you  may 
r£ly  upon  my  doing.  Professionally,  you  need  have  no 
fear  that  I  will  not  do  my  best  for  the  patient." 

"It  is  not  that,"  said  Eighmie  hesitantly,  "but 
would  you  mind — the  young  lady — I  don't  suppose 
you  know  how  I  feel  about  it.  Of  course,  I  am  sorry 
for  the  hurt  she  has  received,  but  I  would  rather  die— I 
would  even  rather  she  would  die — than  have  it  thought 
— than  have  her  think — that  I  would  kidnap  a  free 
white  girl  in  order  to  make  her  a  slave." 

"  Yet  you  intended  to  abduct  one  as  white  as  she." 

"Yes,  a  slave." 

"No,"  said  the  doctor,  shaking  his  head  solemnly; 
"  I  can't  understand  it.  To  my  mind  the  evil  that  is 
done,  even  if  the  worst  result,  is  less  than  the  evil  you 
intended.  Nevertheless,  I  will  tell  Miss  Amy  how  much 
you  regret  the  mistake,  though  I  doubt  if  she  will  under- 
stand your  feeling  any  better  than  I  do." 

"Perhaps  not,"  responded  Eighmie;  "yet  I  should 
be  glad  to  have  her  know  I  did  not  intend  her  any 
harm." 

Then  they  went  away,  leaving  only  the  doctor,  Mar- 
tin, the  mistress  of  Beechwood  and  the  still  unconscious 
man  upon  the  settle. 

It  was  necessary  that  the  doctor  should  return,  as 
Amy  needed  close  attention.    He  had  just  begun  to  give 


512  HOT  PL  0  WSBARES. 

directions  for  the  care  of  Barnes  to  Martin,  who  con- 
sented to  watch  with  him  that  night,  when  the  minister 
entered  and  declared  his  intention  of  caring  for  the  sick 
man,  avowing  his  own  responsibility  for  his  condition. 
After  this  explanation,  Miss  Hunuiwell  gave  Martin 
Hilda's  letter,  and  he  returned  to  the  village  onl}^  to 
learn  that  the  shadow  which  had  seemed  to  lift  from 
his  pathway  so  unexpectedly  had  only  closed  about  it 
more  darkly  than  before. 

For  the  teacher  this  eventful  night  had  still  another 
surprise.  As  she  left  the  reception-room  to  go  to  the 
chamber  a  dark  form  stepped  out  of  the  shadow  of  the 
stairway  and  addressed  her  in  tones  of  respectful  en- 
treaty : 

"Please,  ma'am,  will  you  tell  me  where  our  Miss 
Hilda  is,  and  if  she  's  got  safe  away  ?" 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  the  startled  lady,  in  a  low, 
cautious  tone. 

"I'm  Marse  Hargrove's  ole  servant,  ma'am,  Jason 
they  call  me — sometimes  Jason  Unthank — 'kase  my  ole 
marster's  name  was  Unthank,  you  know." 

"  I  have  heard  Hilda  speak  of  you  frequently,  Jason," 

"Of  course  yer  has,  honey.  Why  I  brought  her  up, 
mostly — Marse  Merwyn  an'  me — atter  the  young  missus 
died." 

"You  knew  Hilda  when  she  was  a  child,  Jason?" 
said  the  teacher,  with  a  new  interest  in  her  tones. 

"Knew  her!  Lor'  bress  yer,  yis.  Wasn't  I  down 
there  in  the  Indies  when  she  was  born  ?  I  'spect  I 
seed  her  'fore  she  was  a  day  ole,  an'  hain't  hardly 
hed  my  eyes  offen  her  sence  dat  time — only  when  I  'se 
been  off  on  a  v'y'ge  with  Marse  Captain,  or  something 
of  that  sort,  yer  know." 

"  Oh,  Jason,  if  we  had  only  known  this  before,  all 
this  trouble  and  bloodshed  might  have  been  avoided." 

"  Please,  ma'am,  what 's  it  all  about  ?    What 's  Marse 


CLEANSED  FR  031  BL  0  OB-  G  UIL  TINE 88.      513 

Eighmie  an'  his  crowd  a-pesterin'  Miss  Hilda  'bout,  any- 
how ?" 

"  They  claim  she  is  a  slave. " 

"Who  says  dat?  It's  a  lie  !  My  Miss  Hilda  a  nig- 
ger !  Bress  her  heart,  dat  she  ain't.  Jes'  let  me  know 
who  says  dat,  ma'am,  an'  ole  Jason  '11  settle  wid  him 
for  it.  Dam  rascals  !  I  couldn't  understan'  what  'twas 
all  about,  but  I  seed  she  war  in  a  heap  of  trouble.  So 
I  waited  roun',  an'  when  dey  tried  to  carry  her  off,  yer 
know,  I  was  jis'  a  gwine  ter  lay  Marse  Eighmie  out  wid 
a  rock  when  in  rushed  dat  other  feller,  grabbed  Miss 
Hilda  'way  from  'em  an'  run.  Den  I  was  all  struck  in 
a  heap,  an'  hardly  knowed  which  one  ter  lite  on  ;  but  I 
knowed  that  Marse  Eighmie  an'  his  crowd  didn't  mean 
her  no  good,  an'  'lowed  dat  'tother  man  couldn't  be  any 
wuss.  Besides,  I  heard  him  callin'  to  her  ez  ef  he  wuz 
friends  with  her.  So  I  didn't  stop  to  ax  no  questions, 
an' when  one  of  Marse  Eighmie's  men  begun  shootin'  at 
him  I  jes'  turned  in  on  him  myself  That 's  the  reason 
yer  had  to  send  fer  the  doctor  fer  him,  I  'spect,"  he  con- 
cluded coolly,  with  a  sly  nod  toward  the  room  where 
Barnes  was  lying. 

"Hush,  Jason,  you  must  not  speak  so  loud,"  said 
Miss  Hunniwell,  herself  hardly  able  to  control  her  con- 
flicting emotions.  "Come  in  here;  I  must  talk  with 
you." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Jason  as  he  followed  her  with 
the  peculiar  noiseless  tread  of  the  well-trained  body- 
servant,  which,  without  being  stealthy,  seems  always 
to  come  and  go  without  any  appeal  to  our  consciousness. 
She  opened  the  door  of  the  little  library  or  office  that 
adjoined  her  own  room,  A  fire  was  smouldering  upon 
the  hearth,  which  Jason  deftly  coaxed  into  a  cheerful 
blaze.  The  mistress  of  Beechwood  plied  the  old  ser- 
vant with  questions  until  fully  convinced  that  he  was 
able  to  reUeve  Hilda  not  only  of  the  fear  of  enslavement 


514  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

but  of  the  still  greater  horror  of  a  corrupted  hneage.  It 
was  with  no  little  difficulty,  however,  that  she  restrained 
his  impatience  to  learn  the  whereabouts  of  Hilda  : 

"You  see,  ma'am,  I'se  got  ter  find  her.  Marse  Cap- 
tain jes  dat  las'  minute  'fore  I  jumped  abo'd  de  sloop, 
when  he  jes  made  me  put  him  down  an'  leave  him  'kase 
'tweren't  possible  for  both  on  us  ter  git  oft'— though  I  'd 
a  heap  ruther  staid  an'  died  with  him  thar,  I  would, 
ma'am,  an'  no  mistake — that  very  minute  Marse  Har- 
grove tuk  out  ob  his  bosom  dis  yer  package  I'se  got 
here," — striking  his  breast  pocket  as  he  spoke — "an'  he 
says  to  me,  '  Jason,  don't  you  miss  givin'  dat  into  Miss 
Hilda's  own  ban's  yourself.  It 's  my  last  words,  my 
will  an'  test'ment,  Jason;  my  last  blessing  to  my  dar- 
ling, Jason,  which  she  must  have  or  she  won't  be  happy 
no  more  as  long  as  she  lives.'  An'  I  swar  to  him  right 
thar,  ma'am,  jes'  a  minute  afore  I  seed  him  shot  dead, 
dat  I  wouldn't  let  no  man's  nor  woman's  ban'  tech  dat 
ar  letter  till  I  give  it  into  Miss  Hilda's  own  dear  ban's  ; 
an'  I  won't  nuther.  So  yer  see  I'se  got  ter  see  Miss 
Hilda,  an'  right  away  too." 

The  man's  excitement  had  made  him  forget  the  better 
language  of  his  later  years  and  brought  the  dialect  of 
his  youth  to  his  tongue. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  and  give  it  to  her  before?" 
asked  the  woman  tearfully. 

"  I  was  afeared  to,  ma'am.  You  know  this  trouble  I 
was  in  with  Marse  Merwyn,  an'  I  was  afraid  de  law 
might  take  hold  on  me,  yer  know.  Some  of  de  papers 
do  say  we  'd  all  be  took  back  dar  to  be  tried  yet — 
which  jes'  means  hangin'  straight  out  in  sech  a  case  yer 
know.  Then  thar  was  Marse  Eighmie.  I  seed  him 
a-hangin'  round  here,  an'  I  'lowed  he  was  atter  me, 
never  once  dreamin'  he  was  tryin'  to  git  my  pore  Miss 
Hilda  to  make  a  nigger  on  her.  Ef  I  'd  only  knowed 
that,  ther'  wouldn't  been  no  trouble  'bout  him  an'  his 


CLEANSED  FR OM  BL 0 OB- G UILTINES8.      515 

crowd  now.  Jason  would  hev  settled  with  the  las'  one 
of  'em  a  heap  better  'n  he  did  with  dat  mean  white 
critter  in  yon,  too." 

"Jason,  Mr.  Anderson  thinks  he  is  the  one  that  in- 
jured that  man?  He  feels  very  badly  about  it,"  said 
Miss  Hunniwell. 

"Mr.  Anderson — that 's  the  man  that  thought  he  was 
helping  Miss  Hilda.  I  remember  hearing  him  speak  his 
name  now.  He  's  a  perfect  gentleman,  that  man  is ; 
but,  pshaw  !  that  rock  he  threw  wouldn't  a-stopped  that 
low-down  cuss  a  quarter  of  a  minute  ef  Jason  hadn't  a 
tuk  a  hand  in  'bout  dat  time." 

"But  you  ought  to  let  him  know,  so  that  he  will  not 
feel  so  badly.  He  's  nursing  him  now,  because  he  thinks 
it  his  duty  to  help  restore  the  man  he  has  injured." 

"Certain,  ma'am,  certain.  I'll  do  that,  and  I'd  be 
glad  to  do  the  nussin',  too,  after  I  've  seen  Miss  Hilda, 
you  know.  I  hain't  a  doubt  I  'd  do  it  a  heap  better  than 
Mr.  Anderson.  I  seed  him  when  he  come  in,  an'  he 
don't  look  like  he  was  cut  out  for  a  nuss,  nohow." 

"But  I  don't  know  where  Hilda  is,"  said  Miss  Hun- 
niwell. 

"  You  don't  know  ?  Didn't  this  man,  Mr.  Anderson, 
take  her  away  in  his  buggy  ?" 

"No,  that  was  another  young  lady  they  got  by  mis- 
take." 

"  Then  whar  has  my  young  mistis  gone  ?" 

"  I  took  her  away  in  my  carriage  just  before  dark." 

"  An'  yet  don't  know  where  she  is  ?"  suspiciously. 

"Just  so,  Jason.  I  took  her  to  the  depot,  and  saw 
her  take  the  train." 

"  Where  was  she  goin'  ?"  asked  Jason,  picking  up  his 
hat,  that  was  lying  at  his  feet,  as  if  about  to  start  in 
pursuit. 

"I  don't  know,"  was  the  answer. 


516  HOT  PL  0  WSHARES. 

"  Don't  know  ?  Didn't  she  tell  yer  whar  she  was 
goin'  ?"  asked  the  man  almost  angrily. 

"  She  not  only  did  not  tell  me,  Jason,  but  she  posi- 
tively refused  to  do  so." 

"Den  I  mus'  find  her,"  said  Jason,  with  a  long-drawn 
sigh.  "  I  promised  Marse  Merwyn,  an'  I  '11  do  it  ef  I 
don't  nebber  hev  ary  other  day's  rest  while  I  live." 

"But,  Jason,"  began  Miss  Hunniwell. 

"Don't  talk  ter  me;  don't  talk,"  said  Jason  shaking 
his  hand  toward  her  and  turning  away  his  head.  "I'll 
jes'  keep  a-trampin'  day  an'  night  till  I  find  dat  ar  gal — 
dat  Miss  Hilda.  Dat  I  will,  an'  dar  ain't  no  use  in 
talkin'  'bout  it.  I  'm  much  obleeged  to  ye,  ma'am,  but 
I  might  jes'  ez  well  be  gittin'  'long.  Dar  ain't  no  sense 
in  waiting  heah." 

He  started  toward  the  door  as  he  spoke. 

"  But  where  will  you  go,  Jason  ?" 

"Oh,  it  don't  matter — anywhar.  P'r'aps  de  Lord 
will  kinder  show  me  de  way  for  de  pore  chile's  sake.  I 
don't  take  much  stock  in  de  Lord  myself,  kase  it  'pears 
to  me  He's  mighty  onreliable.  Take  Him  up  one  side 
an'  down  de  other,  an'  I  can't  see  ez  it  makes  more  'n 
about  a  good  average — fair  to  middlin'  ez  they  say  about 
cotting." 

"Jason,"  said  the  teacher  sternly,  "you  must  not 
speak  in  that  manner." 

"Can't  help  it,  ma'am  ;  I  p'intedly  can't.  What  the 
Lord  let  that  low-down,  poor,  way-off  Eighmie  crowd 
kill  Marse  Hargrove  for  ?" 

"I  cannot  tell,  Jason;  but  you  know  He  had  some 
good  purpose  in  it,  and  He  will  guide  you  in  your  search 
for  Hilda  if  you  will  only  follow  where  He  leads." 

"It  may  be,  ma'am,  but  I  don't  see  ez  He  's  a-doin' 
any  leadin'  now,  nor  anything  else,  only  mixin'  mat- 
ters up  so  that  it  looks  as  ef  they  'd  never  git  straight 
agin." 


CLEANSED  FR OM  BL 0 OD-  G UILTINE88.       517 

"That  is  because  you  will  not  wait  and  trust  Him, 
Jason.     You  want  everything  done  in  your  own  way." 

"I  wants  dat  little  gal  got  outen  her  trouble.  Dat's 
what  I  want,  ma'am ;  an'  I  wants  it  done  right  away, 
too." 

"That  is  all  right  for  you  to  wish,  Jason;  but  you 
must  follow  God  and  not  try  to  lead  Him.  Just  think, 
now.  The  whole  world  is  before  you.  You  don't  know 
whether  Hilda  has  gone  east  or  west  or  north  or  south." 

"I  reckon  yotc  knows  which  way  the  train  was  goin' 
that  she  got  on,  don't  yer  ?" 

"  I  don't  even  know  that,  Jason.  I  was  so  fearful  for 
her,  and  so  flustered  by  the  danger  she  was  in,  that  I 
could  do  nothing  but  watch  and  see  that  she  was  safe 
upon  the  train,  and  then  close  my  eyes  in  grateful 
prayer.  There  were  two  trains  at  the  station.  When 
I  looked  again  both  were  going  out.  "Which  Hilda  was 
on  I  don't  know." 

"  She 's  done  gone  back  to  Sturmhold,  dat 's  whar 
she  's  gone,"  said  Jason,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"  That 's  where  she  has  not  gone,"  said  the  teacher. 
"You  forget  that  she  was  hiding — hiding  away  from 
Mr.  Eighmie,  and  hiding  away  from  Martin  Kortright." 

"What 's  she  hidin'  from  young  Marse  Martin  for  ?" 

"Because  she  was  afraid  that — that  what  they  said 
about  her  father  might  be  true." 

"I  see,"  said  Jason,  "I  see.  She  was  afraid  there 
might  be  jes'  one  little  drap  of  colored  blood  in  her 
veins,  an'  she  'd  rather  die  tlian  see  Marse  Martin  agin 
ef  ther  was.  I  don't  blame  her  nuther — I  don't  blame 
her.  It 's  the  cuss  of  Cain,  shore,  an'  it 's  no  wonder 
that  blessed  chile  should  feel  like  hidin'  away  when 
she  thought  she  hed  it  jes'  like  ole  Cain  hisself  when 
he  hear  de  Lord  a  callin'  atter  him.  Yis,  you're 
right.  She 's  hid  jes'  ez  safe  ez  a  young  partridge. 
Marse  Martin  '11  try  powerful  hard,  but  he  won't  find 


518  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

her — never  !  Miss  Hilda 's  too  peart  for  dat.  She  's 
her  pappy  all  over,  Miss  Hilda  is,  only  she  looks  power- 
ful like  her  ma,  pore  dear.  He  won't  never  find  her 
ez  long  ez  she  keeps  on  hidin' ;  no  mo'  will  Jason 
nuther.  Ther  ain't  no  give  up  in  that  gal  more  'n  ther 
was  in  her  pa — not  a  bit.  When  she  's  once  sot  her 
head  on  anything  she  '11  stan'  to  it  till  the  very  last. 
We  won't  never  find  her,  none  of  us,  ma'am,  unless  the 
Lord  does  take  hold  an'  show  us  whar  she  's  hid.  Pore 
gal !  pore  gal !" 

The  faithful  servant  sank  down  upon  the  floor, 
thoroughly  crushed  with  disappointment.  Miss  Hunni- 
well  arose,  and,  putting  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  said  : 

"  There,  there,  Jason.  Don't  be  cast  down.  There 
is  a  chance,  a  hope,  wliich  we  must  not  lose  sight  of. 
She  has  promised  to  write  tome." 

"Yer  don't  say,"  said  Jason,  raising  his  head. 
"When?" 

"At  least  within  a  year.  Sooner,  if  she  is  in  trouble 
or  need  of  any  kind." 

"An'  will  yer  let  ole  Jason  know  where  de  pore 
chile  is?" 

"  Just  as  soon  as  I  hear." 

"Bless  God,  ma'am,  I'll  stay  right  here  an'  wait. 
Don't  ye  want  ter  hire  a  boy,  ma'am  ?"  said  he,  with  a 
quick  rebound  from  grief  to  joy,  peculiar  to  his  mercu- 
rial race,  as  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  bowed  laughingly 
before  her,  like  a  slave-boy  seeking  a  home  at  the 
Christmas  time.  Though  past  middle  life  Jason  retained 
the  activity  of  youth  and  like  all  his  race  defied  the 
closest  observer  to  determine  his  age. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Miss  Hunniwell,  entering  into  the 
humor  of  his  request,  and  catching  at  once  at  this 
means  of  serving  Hilda  most  eflectually.  "I  want 
some  one  to  nurse  this  wounded  man,  and  after  that  to 
help  about  the  stable  and  the  house." 


CLEANSED  FR  031  BL  0  OD-  G  UIL  TINE 8 S.       519 

"Auywhar,  ma'am,  anywhar.  There's  mighty  few 
thmgs  Jason  can't  do,  and  it  '11  need  a  power  of  work 
to  keep  him  contented  till  he  hears  from  Miss  Hilda. 
But  there  's  one  thing  I  'd  like  ter  know,  ma'am." 

"What  is  that,  Jason?" 

"  Ef  that  warn't  our  Miss  Hilda  they  were  tryin'  ter 
git  away  with,  who  was  it  ?" 

"  It  was  a  young  lady  that  occupied  the  room  next  to 
hers,"  said  the  teacher,  "  Miss  Amy  Hargrove." 

"  Yer  don't  say  ?"  exclaimed  Jason  in  astonishment. 

"  Yes,  and  the  man  in  yonder  shot  her,  so  that  there 
is  great  danger  that  she  may  die." 

"Yer  don't  say?"  repeated  Jason  in  open-mouthed 
amazement.  "  Yer  don't  say  ?  An'  it  warn't  our  Hilda 
at  all  but  that  other  one  that  was  run  off  with  an'  hurt. 
An'  yer  say  she  's  like  ter  die,  ma'am?" 

"  So  the  doctor  fears." 

"  Wal  now,  ma'am,  p'r'aps  I  might  as  well  take  back 
what  I  said  about  de  Lo'd  a  while  ago.  'Pears  like  He 
must  ha'  knowed  what  He  war  about  atter  all,"  said 
Jason  with  a  peculiar  solemnity  of  tone  and  manner. 

Gilbert  Anderson,  walking  back  to  his  snug  home  in 
the  gray  morning,  with  the  sense  of  blood-guiltiness  lifted 
from  his  soul,  uttered  the  same  sentiment  in  more  re- 
fined language. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

THE  PROOF  THAT  HEALETH  DOUBT. 

Jared  Clarksox  was  greatly  disturbed  by  the  dis- 
patch from  Miss  Hunniwell — "Come  at  once  for  Miss 
Hargrove's  sake."  Accustomed  as  he  was  t(?  accept 
responsibility,  he  had  somehow  shrunk  in  an  unac- 
countable manner  from  the  trust  imposed  on  him  by 
Merwyn  Hargrove.  The  sight  of  the  sealed  parcel 
lying  in  his  safe  had  more  than  once  filled  him  with 
apprehension.  Every  time  that  he  had  been  required 
to  act  under  the  instructions  Hargrove  had  given  him 
he  had  done  so  with  peculiar  reluctance.  It  was  as  if 
he  had  a  premonition  of  evil  connected  with  them. 
More  than  once  he  had  determined  to  shift  this  burden 
upon  Kortright,  and  but  for  the  invalid's  condition 
would  no  doubt  have  done  so  before  this  time.  Even 
as  it  was,  he  hesitated  to  comply  with  the  teacher's  ur- 
gent request,  and  instead  of  taking  the  train  at  once 
drove  over  to  Sturmhold  for  consultation  with  Kort- 
right, taking  with  him  the  sealed  package  and  Har- 
grove's letter  in  regard  to  it. 

The  two  men  talked  long  and  anxiously  of  the  events 
which  had  occurred,  and  speculated  not  a  little  as  to 
what  the  trouble  that  threatened  Hilda  might  be. 

"lam  sure  I  cannot  imagine,"  said  Clarkson,  "nor 
why  they  should  have  sent  for  me.  That  they  should 
telegraph  for  Martin  is  very  natural." 

"I  suppose  to  seek  your  advice  because  you  were 
her  father's  friend,  and  are,  in  a  sense,  his  representa- 
tive now,"  answered  Kortright. 

"I  have  thought  of  that,"  said  Clarkson,  "but  it 
520 


THE  PR  0  OF  TEA  T  IIEALETH  D  0  UB T.        531 

seems  improbable  tbat  her  father  Avould  have  intrusted 
her  with  the  pecuhar  character  of  our  relations." 

"Well,"  said  Kortright,  with  decision,  "Hilda  evi- 
dently needs  your  aid,  and  you  must  go,  and  go  at  once, 
too." 

"Then,  if  that  is  settled,"  said  Clarkson,  "I  think  it 
best  that  this  parcel  should  be  opened,  and  I  do  not 
wish  that  to  be  done  except  in  the  presence  of  another 
trustworthy  friend  of  the  deceased  besides  myself." 

He  took  the  package  from  his  pocket  as  he  spoke.  It 
was  indorsed  in  the  handwriting  of  Hargrove : 

"This  package  will  be  opened  by  the  person  to  whom  it 
may  be  intrusted  only  when  such  person  shall,  in  the  exer- 
cise of  a  sound  and  honest  discretion,  believe  that  the  time 
has  come  when  it  is  absolutely  necessary  for  him  to  know 
the  exact  truth  in  regard  to  the  children  of  the  late 
George  Eighmie  and  Alida,  his  wife.  If  no  such  occasion 
arises  previous  to  the  marriage  of  Hilda,  or  before  she  at- 
tains the  age  of  twenty-one  years,  it  is  my  desire  that  this 
parcel  be  placed  in  her  hands  with  its  seals  yet  unbroken. 
Signed,  Merwyn  Hargrove." 

It  was  sealed  with  his  monogram  and  the  bristling 
boar's  head  crest  which  the  old  buccaneer  had  adopted 
as  a  boastful  emblem  of  lowly  origin  and  dangerous 
strength.  Clarkson  handed  the  parcel  to  Kortright,  who 
read  the  superscription  carefully,  and  remarked  doubt- 
fully as  he  returned  it : 

"  You  are  sure  the  time  has  come  ?" 

"I  am  very  sure,"  answered  Clarkson.  "I  cannot 
act  intelligently  in  any  matter  touching  Hilda  without 
the  knowledge  this  envelope  contains." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Kortright,  "though  I  don't  ex- 
actly see  why.  It  doesn't  impress  me  that  her  present 
trouble  is  in  any  way  connected  with  the  Eighmie  chil- 
dren." 


522  HOT  PL 0  W SHARES. 

"Oh,  it  must  be,  directly  or  indirectly,  else  I  should 
never  have  been  summoned,"  said  Clarkson. 

"I  cannot  understand  why  you  think  so,"  Kortright 
replied. 

"Well,  let  me  show  you,"  said  Clarkson,  settling 
himself  for  one  of  his  favorite  monologues.  "You  know 
that  there  were  two  of  these  children  —  the  Eighmie 
children  I  mean.  One  of  these  Captain  Hargrove,  in 
conformity  with  the  desire  of  his  half-brother,  deprived 
of  her  identity,  hid,  '  transformed '  he  calls  it  in  his 
letter.  The  other  he  tells  us  he  could  not  trace.  The 
latter  I  have  found.  I  am  now,  as  I  fully  believe,  able 
to  lay  my  hands  on  the  son  of  George  and  Alida  Eigh- 
mie. He  having  been  born  before  the  emancipation  of 
his  mother  and  the  second  marriage  of  his  parents  in 
this  state,  even  though  formall}^  legitimatized  by  the 
father  under  our  laws,  it  is  somewhat  doubtful  what 
his  legal  status  might  be  adjudged  to  be.  This  being  the 
case,  I  have  already  taken  steps  to  extinguish  the  title 
of  the  man  who  recently  claimed  him  as  a  slave  by  taking 
a  bill  of  sale  to  myself  You  see,"  he  added,  smihng  at 
his  own  conceit,  "I  am  getting  aristocratic.  I  come  of 
a  slave-holding  stock  and  am  now  a  slave-owner  myself 
It  is  no  wonder  that  Southern  gentlemen  are  partial  to 
one  having  so  much  in  common  with  them,  despite  my 
fearful  reputation  as  an  Abolitionist,  is  it  ?" 

Kortright's  only  reply  was  a  smile,  and  Clarkson 
went  on : 

"The  proof  that  the  young  man  to  whom  I  refer  is 
the  veritable  Hugh  Eighmie  for  whom  Captain  Har- 
grove sought  so  long  and  unsuccessfully,  is  almost  per- 
fect. I  had  hoped  to  present  him  to  Hargrove  on  his 
return,  when,  no  doubt,  he  could  very  soon  have  made 
the  chain  complete.  Before  the  opportunity  came,  how- 
ever, he  was  stricken  down  in  the  performance  of  his 
duty.    Ever  since  that  event  I  have  been  in  great  trouble 


THE  PR 0 OF  THAT  HEALETH  D 0 UBT.        523 

as  to  what  I  ought  to  do  in  reference  to  this  young  man. 
He  and  his  sister  are  unquestionably  the  true  heirs  of 
George  Eighmie,  unless  illegitimate.  I  am  the  more 
troubled  because  of  the  fact  that  I  was  enabled  to  iden- 
tify Hugh  by  his  mother's  instant  recognition  of  her  son 
when  she  had  but  a  passing  glimpse  of  his  features,  and 
that,  too,  by  a  very  imperfect  light." 

"Indeed,  you  surprise  me  !"  said  Kortright. 

"Yes,"  said  Clarkson,  "we  have  been  accustomed  to 
regard  Alida  as  a  poor,  feeble  creature,  whose  wits 
are  not  to  be  relied  on,  ever  since  you  brought  her  to 
my  house  in  the  big  snow-storm — let  me  see,  now  just 
about  ten  years  ago,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Ten  years  and  a  few  days,"  said  Kortright,  solemnly 
shaking  his  head.  "Ah,  Mr.  Clarkson,  there  have  been 
great  changes  in  that  time." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  returned  the  other,  "wonderful 
changes.  It  is  hardly  possible  that  another  decade  can 
bring  the  like." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  full  of  thoughtful  retro- 
spect to  these  men  to  whom  the  sunset  of  life  was  draw- 
ing near.  They  were  not  old  men,  but  the  era  which 
they  spoke  had  taxed  their  lives  with  burdens  and 
activities  no  other  past  had  ever  known.  After  a  time 
Clarkson  continued : 

"Well,  as  I  was  saying,  we  have  never  looked  upon 
Alida  as  altogether  right  in  her  mind  since  that  time." 

Kortright  nodded,  but  made  no  other  response. 

"Hargrove  himself  thought  her  thoroughly  demented 
even  before,  and  attributed  her  insanity  solely  to  grief 
at  the  loss  of  her  children;  but  it  was  not  until  the 
recognition  of  her  son  in  the  person  of  a  hunted  fugi- 
tive, that  she  came  to  her  present  hopeless  condition. 
Since  that  occasion  I  suppose  she  has  manifested  no 
evidence  of  sanity,  or  even  of  active  intellection,  at  all." 

Kortright  glanced  uneasily  at  the  door,  and  said  : 


524  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  Would  you  mind  turn- 
ing the  key  in  the  door,  Clarkson  ?  I  have  something 
to  tell  you  that  I  would  not  have  Mrs.  Kortright  know 
for  a  good  deal." 

Clarkson  opened  his  eyes  with  surprise,  but  did  as  he 
was  requested.  When  he  returned  Kortright  motioned 
to  him  to  sit  down  in  the  invalid  chair  by  the  side  of  the 
couch  so  that  he  could  lay  his  hand  upon  his  knee,  and 
said  : 

"Do  you  know,  I  cannot  understand  that  woman — 
Alida?  She  has  evidentl}^  always  been  given  to  hallu- 
cinations. No  proof  could  ever  satisfy  her,  for  a  great 
while  at  a  time,  that  Hargrove,  who  literally  sacrificed 
his  whole  life  to  carry  out  her  husband's  fancies,  was 
really  her  fi'iend." 

"That,"  said  Clarkson,  sententiously,  "was  because 
he  had  no  real  sympathy  with  her  or  her  race — at  least 
with  the  race  the  taint  of  whose  blood  has  blighted  her 
life.  Besides  that,  he  never  reposed  any  confidence  in 
her." 

"Whatever  the  cause,  that  was  the  fact,  but  it  could 
not  be  for  any  such  reason  that  she  took  an  incurable 
dislike  to  us." 

"  Has  she  done  so  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed.  You  see  I  am  such  a  victim  to  this 
rheumatism  now,  that  day  and  night  have  lost  their 
normal  relations  so  far  as  I  am  concerned.  I  wake  by 
night  and  sleep  by  day,  or  vice  versa,  as  the  case  may 
be.  Sometimes  I  am  awake  for  tAvo  or  three  days  and 
nights  in  succession,  and  then  perhaps  I  sleep  almost  as 
long.  For  this  reason,  I  stay  here  in  the  library  all  the 
time.  It 's  the  only  part  of  this  great  house  that  ever 
seemed  home-like  to  me  anyhow.  I  lie  upon  my  couch 
here,  or  crawl  into  my  chair,  and  think  or  read,  sleep 
or  wake,  without  disturbing  any  one.  Martha  occupies 
the  bedroom  adjoining,  but  she  is  a  sound  sleeper,  and 


THE  PR 0 OF  THAT  HEALETH  D 0 UBT.        525 

hears  nothing  unless  I  call  her  name.  Well,  it  wasn't 
long  after  we  came  here  that  I  found  that  this  woman, 
Alida,  was  a  very  different  creature  at  night  from  what 
she  seems  to  be  or  is  in  the  daytime.  I  was  lying 
here  on  my  couch  one  night  when  she  came  in,  went 
straight  to  that  desk  there — the  one  the  Captain  used, 
you  know — raised  the  lid,  and  appeared  to  be  hunting 
around  for  something  which  she  could  not  find.  Then 
she  went  to  the  shelves  there,  took  down  one  or  two 
books,  and  seemed  to  be  searching  through  them  for 
something  that  she  expected  to  find  between  the  leaves. 
Failing  in  this,  she  came  here  to  the  grate,  warmed  her 
feet  one  after  the  other,  in  the  meantime  knitting  her 
brows,  and  seeming  to  be  in  great  distress,  as  if  unable 
to  recall  something  she  had  once  known.  She  paid  no 
attention  to  me,  not  appearing  to  be  aware  of  my  pres- 
ence. Of  course  I  was  very  much  surprised  at  this 
manifestation,  and  fully  intended  to  have  spoken  of 
it  the  next  day,  but  something  drove  it  from  my 
mind,  and  her  visits  soon  came  to  be  so  frequent  that 
I  became  interested  in  them,  and  even  looked  forward 
to  the  night,  when  my  ailment  was  very  painful,  with  a 
sort  of  enjoyment.  It  was  not  always  the  same,  this 
novel  entertainment,  and  I  soon  found  great  relief  in 
trying  to  decipher  the  causes  of  her  varying  moods. 
By  careful  watching  I  came  to  understand  much  that 
she  does,  or,  at  least,  to  form  a  good  idea  of  what  it 
means  to  her.  She  rarely  speaks,  but  now  and  then 
uses  an  exclamation  that  aids  me  in  arriving  at  a  con- 
clusion with  regard  to  her  thoughts. 

"It  is  very  strange,"  said  Clarkson.  "She  is  evi- 
dently a  somnambulist." 

"No  doubt,"  assented  Kortright,  "but  do  you  not 
see  this  strange  thing  beside — the  waking  woman  is 
weak  and  silly,  almost  dead  to  what  is  going  on  about 
her ;  but  the  sleeping  woman  is  active,  alert  and  evi- 


5^6  no  T  PLO  WSHARES. 

dently  alive  to  circumstances,  sentiments,  antipathies 
and  preferences  which  are  of  the  past  or  which  she  fits 
into  a  past  which  is  the  present  to  her.  She  is  not  always 
unconscious  of  surrounding  objects,  but  always  mistakes 
them,  when  she  does  notice  them,  for  something  con- 
nected with  the  train  of  thought  she  seems  pursuing," 

"  It  is  very  remarkable,"  said  Clarkson. 

"The  scene  with  the  desk  and  books  is  the  one  most 
frequently  enacted.  I  have  been  through  the  desk  again 
and  again,  and  turned  over  every  book  upon  the  shelf  to 
which  she  always  goes.  A  queer  thing  about  it  is  that 
if  I  disarrange  the  papers  at  the  left  of  the  desk  she 
seems  at  once  worried  and  disturbed,  and  will  not  leave 
it  until  she  has  placed  the  packages  back  just  as  they 
were.  Those  at  the  right  hand  she  seems  to  pay  no 
attention  to  at  all.  It  is  queer,  too,  that  one  volume 
of  the  set  of  books  she  always  examines  is  missing. 
One  time  I  had  them  changed  and  other  books  put  in 
their  places.  She  was  greatly  excited  by  that ;  pulled 
the  books  out,  threw  them  on  the  floor,  and  finally 
seemed  to  half  awake,  or  rather  to  assume  her  ordi- 
nary waking  condition.  There  is  this  strange  thing 
about  her  condition,  she  is  most  awake  when  she  is 
soundest  asleep.  She  sees,  hears,  thinks ;  but  she  sees 
and  hears  and  thinks  only  with  reference  to  a  state  of 
facts  that  exists  but  in  her  memory  or  imagination. 
The  silly,  furtive  leer  she  has  in  the  daytime  came  into 
her  eyes ;  she  looked  cautiously  at  me,  and  finally  stole 
out  on  tiptoe,  turning  every  now  and  then  to  glare  back 
at  me.  It  seemed  to  distress  her  so  that  I  had  the 
books  restored  the  next  day." 

"You  amaze  me,"  said  Clarkson.  "  Do  you  think  it 
safe  that  she  should  wander  about  unguarded  in  this 
manner  during  the  night  ?" 

"Candidly,"  said  Kortright,  with  an  amused  smile, 
"I  do  not,  but  what  would  become  of  my  entertain- 


THE  PR 0 OP  THA T  lIEALE'l II  DOUB T.        527 

ment  if  she  were  confined  ?  I  assure  you  it  is  of  great 
advantage  to  me.  I  always  forget  my  pain  while  she  is 
here,  and  usually  fall  asleep  afterward  trying  to  unravel 
the  charades  she  has  acted." 

"Have  you  ever  succeeded?"  asked  Clarkson  curi- 
ously. 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed;  and  I  have  thus  learned  some 
very  strange  things,"  answered  Kortright.  "It  was 
by  that  means  that  I  discovered  her  antipathy  to  my 
family,  especially  toward  Martin.  When  1  am  very  bad, 
sometimes,  one  of  the  family  will  insist  upon  watching 
with  me,  as  they  say,  which  usually  results  in  their 
going  to  sleep  and  my  watching  them.  As  I  am  on 
this  side  the  fireplace,"  he  continued,  "they  naturall}'^ 
sit  on  the  other,  which  brings  them  directly  in  her  path 
when  she  comes  to  lean  upon  the  mantel  to  warm  her 
feet  at  the  fire  and  recall  what  she  has  forgotten.  Mar- 
tin was  the  first  one  she  found  there  one  night  when 
he  was  comfortably  sleeping  on  his  watch.  "When  she 
had  peered  around  the  back  of  my  invalid  chair  in 
which  he  sat,  in  the  half-awake  manner  that  any  inter- 
ruption of  her  wonted  routine  produces,  and  seemed  to 
recognize  who  it  was,  she  became  so  terribly  excited 
that  I  really  feared  she  would  attack  him.  However, 
she  left  the  room  without  awaking  him,  and  that  night, 
for  the  first  time,  returned  again.  It  was  perhaps  an 
hour  afterward.  I  had  wakened  Martin  and  sent  him 
to  bed,  on  the  false  pretense  that  I  was  more  comfort- 
able. When  she  re-entered  the  room  the  impression 
of  his  presence  was  evidently  still  fresh  in  her  mind. 
She  shook  her  fist  at  the  empty  chair,  gnashed  her 
teeth,  and  then  suddenly  burst  into  a  laugh.  I  was 
afraid  she  would  wake  Martha,  but  fortunately  she  did 
not.  Then  she  went  through  a  pantomime  that  I  could 
not  understand,  and  which  yet  seemed  to  have  a  regular 
order,  and  to  be  connected  in  her  thought  with  Martin, 


528  HOT  PLOWSHABES. 

for  at  the  end  she  ran  quickl}^  to  the  door,  stopped  and 
Mstened  as  if  fearing  pursuit,  shook  her  hand  at  the 
chair  again,  and  stealtliilj^  disappeared." 

"  This  is  really  astounding,"  exclaimed  the  listener. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  Kortright.  "The  next 
night,  as  it  happened,  Martha  had  insisted  on  silting  up 
with  me,  and  was  asleep  in  that  same  chair.  Alida  dis- 
covered the  intrusion  as  hefore.  After  a  while  she 
seemed  to  recognize  my  wife's  identity,  and  for  a  time 
a  look  of  hesitation,  almost  tenderness,  passed  over  her 
face  as  she  stood  in  the  firelight  gazing  into  the  placid 
face  of  my  watcher.  Finally  she  exhibited  toward  her 
the  same  evidences  of  aversion,  however,  she  had  shown 
toward  Martin  the  night  hefore.  As  she  went  out, 
I  made  haste  to  awaken  wife  and  get  her  to  bed,  so 
that  I  might  have  a  good  opportunity  to  watch  Alida's 
conduct  should  she  return.  She  did  return,  and  Avent 
through  the  performance  of  the  night  before  without 
varying  a  movement.  After  this  she  frequentl}^  re- 
turned, especially  if  anything  interfered  with  the  usual 
routine  of  her  first  visit,  and  went  through  this  same 
mimicry  of  an  event  that  has  evidently  left  a  most 
vivid  impression  on  her  mind,  until  I  have  learned 
to  interpret  every  gesture,  and  know  as  well  what  she 
is  thinking  of  as  if  she  uttered  articulate  sounds  in- 
stead of  using  this  strange  pantomime.  She  sometimes 
does  utter  a  Avord  or  two,  but  even  without  that  I  think 
I  should  have  solved  the  riddle  finally  since  the  subject 
of  it  was  most  intimately  connected  with  my  own  life." 

"No!"  exclaimed  Clarkson  incredulously.  "What  is 
the  subject  of  this  strange  hallucination,  do  you  suppose  ?" 

"She  lives  over  again  her  own  experience  on  the  night 
of  the  burning  of  the  factory  and  Paradise  Bay." 

"How  can  that  be?"  asked  Clarkson;  "she  could 
hardly  have  seen  the  flames  from  here." 

"  She  set  the  fire  herself!"  said  Kortright  earnestly. 


THE  PR 0 OF  TEA T  IIEALETH  DOUBT.        529 

"  You  do  not  mean  it  ?" 

"There  is  no  doubt  of  it.  Slie  performs  all  the  acts 
the  incendiary  must  have  performed :  turns  on  the 
water ;  sets  the  fire  under  the  stairway ;  watches  the 
tlame  ;  turns  the  lever  of  the  waste-gate  ;  flees  and  turns 
in  to  do  still  another  act  of  vengeance  at  Paradise  Bay." 

"Are  you  sure  you  are  not  mistaken?"  asked  Clark- 
son.  "Is  your  brain  in  good  working  order,  or  do  your 
own  fancies  color  what  you  see  ?" 

"I  am  not  fanciful,  and  I  have  worked  too  long  over 
this  riddle  to  question  its  solution  now,"  said  Kortright. 

"What  could  have  been  her  motive  ?"  asked  Clarkson. 

"  It  could  only  have  been  a  bUnd  jealousy  of  Martin," 
responded  Kortright.  "  I  have  recalled  since  this  began 
the  fact  of  her  aversion  for  him  even  as  a  boy.  It  was 
probably  due  to  her  insensate  jealousy  of  all  those  for 
whom  Hilda  manifested  any  attachment." 

"Well,  what  is  your  conclusion?"  asked  Clarkson 
after  a  moment's  thought.  "Do  you  think  her  an  im- 
postor ?" 

"Not  by  any  means,"  was  the  ready  response.  "I 
am  no  scientist,  but  I  have  heard  that  the  brain  is  really 
two  brains  and  that  certain  parts  of  it  may  act  without, 
or  even  in  opposition  to,  the  action  of  the  remainder. 
Now  my  explanation  is  that  the  woman  is  crazy  beyond 
all  doubt.  Every  part  of  her  brain  is  diseased  and  ab- 
normal ;  but  one  part  may  be  said  to  sleep  during  the 
day,  and  the  other,  weaker  and  duller,  during  the  night. 
During  her  somnambulistic  state  the  most  active  and 
positive  elements  of  her  nature  are  at  work,  and  she 
loves  and  hates  Avith  all  the  intensity  of  her  earlier 
days.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  she  acted  the  incen- 
diary in  this  half-unconscious  state.  Only  a  little  while 
before  Hilda  had  been  home  for  her  vacation.  The 
young  people  had  been  together  here  a  good  deal,  and 
had  probably  been  very  lover-like.     This  had  fired  her 


o30  no  T  PL  0  WSHAitES. 

weak  brain  to  frenzy,  and  had  intensified  all  her  former 
hatred  for  my  son." 

"What  is  her  feeling  toward  you  ?" 

"  She  has  never  seemed  to  recognize  me  fully.  I  could 
not  account  for  this  at  first,  but  finally  concluded  that 
it  was  because  of  my  reclining  position  on  the  couch. 
Then,  again,  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  she  half  mis- 
takes me  for  Hargrove,  who  was  himself  accustomed  to 
occupy  a  couch  here  in  the  libraiy  a  good  portion  of  the 
time  instead  of  the  bed  in  the  room  adjoining.  Indeed, 
it  was  that  fact  that  first  suggested  to  my  mind  the  ad- 
visability of  doing  so  myself." 

"You  think  she  has  sane  and  lucid  intervals,  then?" 

"Well,  I  should  hardly  want  to  say  that,  but  I  think 
she  has  intervals  when  certain  past  facts  are  very  clearly 
recalled  to  her  memory,"  answered  Kortright. 

"Ah!  that  indeed,"  said  Clarkson  meditatively,  as 
he  rose  and  pressing  one  hand  upon  his  neck  threw 
his  head  quickly  back  as  if  to  relieve  an  accustomed 
pain.  Then  he  walked  up  and  down  the  room  in  deep 
thought,  his  hands  behind  him  and  his  head  bowed 
on  his  breast,  but  with  a  step  as  nervous  and  elastic 
as  if  the  years  had  not  touched  his  frame  nor  care  bowed 
his  spirit.  Kortright,  chained  to  his  pillow  by  disease, 
followed  the  footsteps  of  his  friend  with  a  look  akin  to 
envy.  Presently  he  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  couch,  and 
looking  down  at  the  wan,  keen  face  before  him,  he  said : 

"Squire  Kortright,  do  you  know  it  is  very  strange 
that  we  should  come  to  speak  of  this  woman  and  her 
mental  status  at  this  time  ?" 

"  Why  so  ?"  asks  the  other. 

"Because,"  answered  Clarkson,  "it  is  the  strength  of 
one  of  her  impressions  that  makes  me  feel  it  incumbent 
upon  me  to  open  this  package." 

"How  is  that?"  asked  Kortright,  with  a  languid 
interest. 


THE  PR 0 OF  TliA T  ItEAL ETII  DOUBT.        531 

"Do  you  know  that  she  has  always  claimed  that 
Hilda  is  her  daughter  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  sick  man,  laughingly;  "every- 
body here  knows  of  that  crazy  notion.  She  even  goes  far- 
ther, and  declares  that  her  name  is  Heloise — sometimes 
Heloise  and  sometimes  Marah.  It  seems  that  her  own 
child  was  known  by  both  of  these  names — the  first  be- 
stowed by  the  mother,  and  the  latter  by  the  father,  who, 
at  her  birth,  had  begun  to  taste  the  bitterness  of  his  folly. 
In  her  quieter  days  she  will  stand  gazing  at  Hilda's  pic- 
ture, painted  when  she  was  a  child,  you  know,  and  will 
go  into  a  fearful  rage  if  any  one  calls  it  Hilda." 

"Well,  Kortright,"  said  Clarkson  firmly,  "I  believe 
her." 

"You  believe  her?  You  believe  what  ?  I  don't  un- 
derstand," said  Kortright,  with  a  puzzled  expression. 

"  I  believe  that  Hilda  is  Ahda's  child  !" 

"The  devil  you  do!"  exclaimed  Kortright,  springing 
up  with  an  alacrity  he  had  not  known  in  many  months, 
and  gazing  into  Clarkson's  face  in  unfeigned  astonish- 
ment. "I  beg  pardon,"  he  said  presently;  "I  haven't 
used  such  a  word  before  in  forty  years,  but  will  you 
allow  me  to  ask,  Jared  Clarkson,  if  you  are  insane  as 
well  as  Alida  ?" 

A  flush  passed  over  Clarkson's  face  which  Kortright 
was  too  much  amazed  to  note.  There  had  been  rumors 
at  one  time  and  another  afloat  in  the  community  that 
the  brain  of  this  gifted  man  was  at  times  somewhat  dis- 
ordered. The  inquiry  of  Kortright  was  therefore  a 
barbed  arrow,  which  struck  home  all  the  more  surely 
because  it  was  evidently  not  intended  to  do  mischief. 

"Nevertheless,"  he  answered  quietly,  "I  do  believe 
it,  and  have  long  believed  it.  Alida  has  always  asserted 
it  with  the  utmost  positiveness,  and,  so  far  as  I  know, 
Hargrove  never  denied  it." 

"Denied  it?    Of  course  he  never  did.     Would  you 


533  HOT  PL 0  WSHARE8. 

think  it  neces.saiy  to  deny  a  crazy  servant's  claim  to 
one  of  your  children  ?  The  thing  is  too  ridiculous  even 
to  be  laughed  at !"  exclaimed  Kortright  with  indignant 
scorn. 

"And  yet  I  do  believe  it," persisted  Clarkson.  "You 
must  admit,  Mr.  Kortright,  that  it  is  hardly  an  argu- 
ment to  compare  one  of  our  quiet  households  with  one 
so  full  of  mystery  as  this  at  Sturmhold." 

"Mystery?  Yes,  mystery  enough;  but  none  of  his 
making,  Mr.  Clarkson.  He  was  a  man  as  open  as  the 
day  save  where  others  were  concerned — so  simple  and 
faithful  that  he  never  once  thought  of  peril  to  himself  or 
his  child  in  the  trust  he  undertook  for  the  sake  of  that 
miserable,  slack-spirited  half-brother  that  was  enslaved 
by  this  woman's  pretty  ftice." 

"  You  are  warm  in  your  praise,  and  it  is  commend- 
able that  you  should  be,"  answered  Clarkson;  "but  if 
what  you  say  is  all  true,  why  was  Hilda  so  constantly 
mixed  up  with  this  mysterious  trust  ?  First,  she  is  pro- 
vided for  by  the  contract  with  you.  Why  should  that 
be  when  his  will  made  her  his  sole  heir  ?" 

"That  is  easily  explained,"  said  Kortright. 

"Explained!  Oh,  yes,  I  know.  But  why  the  need 
of  explanation?"  demanded  Clarkson.  "Then,  too, 
this  very  parcel  is  to  be  delivered  into  her  hand,  under 
certain  contingencies." 

"  Of  course,  in  order  that  she  may  continue  her 
father's  watch-care  and  benefactions,  no  doubt." 

"  That  is  the  most  reasonable  explanation  that  can 
be  given,  if  we  exclude  Alida's  claim,"  said  Clarkson; 
"but  the  fact  is  that  no  explanation — no  hypothesis  ot 
a  probable  cause — nothing  but  the  plainest  and  barest 
proof  can  prevail,  in  my  mind,  over  the  maternal  in- 
stinct of  this  woman,  who,  at  all  times,  whether  sane 
or  insane,  has  steadily  and  stubbornly  asserted  the 
fact." 


THE  PR  0  OF  Til  A  T  IIEALETII  DOUBT.        533 

"Well,  then,  in  Heaven's  name,  break  the  seal  and 
have  the  proof!"  exclaimed  Kortright,  pointing  to  the 
envelope  on  the  table. 

Clarkson  lifted  the  envelope  with  a  trembling  hand. 
Taking  a  sharp  knife  from  his  pocket  he  carefully  cut 
around  the  seals,  leaving  them  still  unbroken,  and  after 
opening  the  whole  length  of  the  packet,  drew  forth  two 
smaller  parcels  from  within.  He  read  aloud  the  indorse- 
ment of  the  first : 

"To  be  delivered  to  Hilda,  withovit  delay,  whenever  the 
accompanying  package  is  opened  and  examined  by  any 
person  authorized  so  to  do.  M.  H." 

"That  looks  a  good  deal  as  if  Hilda  and  the  other 
were  one  and  the  same,  doesn't  it  ?"  said  Kortright  in 
a  sneering  tone. 

"Wait,"  said  Clarkson,  as  he  raised  the  other  and 
read  the  superscription : 

"The  papers  herein  contained  will  sufficiently  establish 
the  identity  of  the  daughter  of  George  Eighmie  and  Alida, 
claiming  to  be  his  wife.     They  are  all  originals. 

(Signed)  Merwyn  Hargrove." 

"  Open  it !  open  it !"  Kortright  exclaimed  impatiently. 

Clarkson  did  so  and  drew  out  a  bundle  of  papers. 
Hastily  glancing  at  the  filings  on  the  backs,  he  opened 
them  one  after  another.  At  first  his  face  showed  only 
surprise.     Then  it  grew  pale. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  asked  Kortright,  reaching  out 
his  hand. 

Jared  Clarkson  made  no  answer,  but  extended  the 
papers  to  him,  and  sitting  down  by  the  table,  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands.  A  sob  that  was  almost  a  groan 
escaped  him.  Whether  his  conjecture  was  right  or 
wrong,  what  he  had  found  occasioned  him  only  sorrow. 

Harrison  Kortright  took  the  package,  searched  about 
the  pillow  for  his    glasses,   put    them   on  and  looked 


534  HOT  PL  0  WSHARES. 

through  the  file  of  papers  carefull}^  one  by  one.    There 
were  ten  of  them — all  alike. 

"Pshaw!   what  is   all   this  nonsense?"    he  said  at 
length;  but  his  hand  trembled  and  his  voice  quavered 
as  he  spoke. 
The  papers  were  term-bills,  and  read : 
"Captain  Merwyn  Hargrove, 

In  acct.  with  Beechwood  Seminary, 
To  Board  and  Tuition  of  Hilda  Hargrove.^* 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

THE  EFFECT   OF   A   SIDE   i^IGIIT. 

Hilda  rode  out  of  the  station  unconscious  of  the  di- 
rection she  was  taking — not  knowing  nor  caring  whither 
she  went.  Slie  was  going  away  hardly  expecting  ever 
to  return.  The  cloud  above  her  seemed  impenetrable. 
She  could  not  keep  the  touch  of  her  old  life.  She  must 
bury  herself.  This  was  her  only  refuge,  not  so  much 
from  the  danger  of  enslavement  as  from  the  scatli  of 
scorn  and  debasement.  She  did  not  know  where  or  how 
it  could  be  done.  She  only  knew  that  she  must  flee 
away  from  present  peril.  She  must  have  opportunity 
to  transform  herself— to  bury  her  identity — to  begin  a 
new  existence. 

It  was  a  foolish  notion,  but  Hilda  did  not  know  the 
world.  She  only  knew  what  she  wished  to  do,  and  like 
the  father  of  whose  name  they  sought  to  rob  her,  she 
counted  not  the  obstacles.  She  looked  out  of  the  car 
window,  saw  the  fields  and  woods  fly  past,  in  the  Aveird 
winter  moonlight.  Surely  she  was  safe.  The  desert  of 
life  would  hide  her.  She  did  not  hear  the  conductor 
when  he  came  through  the  train,  and,  spying  a  new 
face,  stopped  at  her  seat  and  said : 

"Ticket!" 

She  only  saw  the  white,  ghostly  world  without,  flying 
by  and  standing  sentinel  between  her  and  a  dreaded 
fate. 

"  Ticket !"  touching  her  shoulder  lightly. 

She  started,  turned  and  glanced  up  at  him  quickly, 
as  if  she  thought  he  suspected  her.  She  wondered  if 
they  could  telegraph  ahead  and  have  her  detained  at 
535 


536  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

the  next  station.  She  had  heard  of  such  thhigs  being 
done  in  case  of  criminals.  She  wondered  if  she  would 
be  considered  a  criminal  because  she  was  fleeing  from 
the  law. 

"  Ticket !"  repeated  the  conductor,  extending  his  hand. 

"I — I  forgot  to  get  one,"  she  said  faintly.  Then  she 
caught  nervously  at  her  pocket-book  and  handed  him  a 
bill. 

"  Where  to  ?"  inquired  the  oflicial,  bending  down  an 
ear. 

Where,  indeed  ?  She  had  no  idea  where  she  was 
going  or  which  way  the  train  was  moving.  She  stam- 
mered, flushed,  and  was  sure  she  was  betraying  herself. 

"  Straight  through  ?" 

She  bowed  her  head.  -  He  had  a  roll  of  bills  between 
every  two  fingers  of  his  left  hand  for  convenience  in 
making  change — ones,  twos  and  fives,  all  separate.  He 
thrust  the  ten-dollar  bill  she  had  given  him  into  his 
vest-pocket,  gave  her  a  two,  a  one,  and  some  change, 
handed  her  a  check  for  Boston,  and  went  on.  She  was 
rather  pleased  with  her  destination.  By-and-by  the 
horror  began  to  wear  away.  The  danger  from  which 
she  fled  was  momently  receding.  She  began  to  feel 
more  comfortable — almost  bold.  After  a  time  she  slept, 
but  uneasily,  and  with  frightful  dreams.  As  the  sun  rose 
they  came  into  Boston.  The  city  was  still  asleep.  The 
hoar-frost  was  thick  upon  roof  and  spire,  and  the 
sunshine  gilded  every  pinnacle.  She  took  a  carriage 
to  the  Revere.  How  bright  and  clean  the  crooked, 
rough-paved  streets  seemed  to  her!  This  was  Boston 
— the  seat  of  culture  and  the  cradle  of  liberty.  What 
a  mockery  the  title  Avas  !  The  blue  smoke  rose  sharp 
and  clear  against  the  sky  from  thousands  of  happy 
homes,  but  she  was  a  fugitive.  Against  a  cloud  to  the 
northeastward  she  dimly  saw  the  top  of  a  gray  column 
once.     She  guessed  that  it  was  the  monument  on  Bun- 


THE  EFFECT  OF  A  tilDE  LIGHT.  537 

ker  Hill,  and  there  flashed  through  her  mind  all  that  it 
commemorated.  The  city  was  very  proud  of  that  gray 
granite  shaft.  The  commonwealth  boasted  itself  the 
possessor  of  the  blood-stained  soil  on  which  it  stood. 
The  nation  pointed  to  it  as  a  memento  of  the  struggle 
that  gave  it  birth.  The  world  accounted  it  a  pillar  of 
liberty — the  memorial  shaft  of  a  new  civilization.  Yet 
imder  its  shadow  she  Avas  a  fugitive,  fleeing  from  bond- 
age and  degradation. 

"Revere  House,  ma'am  !" 

The  driver  opened  the  door,  and  stood  waiting  for  his 
fee.  A  servant  came  and  took  her  modest  bag.  She 
was  ushered  into  the  reception-room — narrow,  stuffy, 
with  furniture  that  seemed  as  if  once  it  had  been  new. 
The  servant  placed  her  bag  on  the  table,  and  asked  if 
she  would  have  a  room.  She  turned  to  look  out  of  the 
window  upon  the  funny  triangle  that  is  called  a  square 
in  Boston.  The  clerk  came  and  inquired  her  name.  She 
started,  flushed  and  paled.  Her  name  ?  What  was  it  ? 
What  should  she  say  ? 

The  clerk  waited.  He  thought  he  had  startled  her 
by  his  abruptness. 

"I  beg  pardon,  ma'am— what  did  you  say  was  the 
name  ?" 

"Oh,  yes;  my  name,  of  course."  She  smiled,  opened 
her  portemonnaie,  and  seemed  to  be  seeking  for  a  card. 
"  Well,  never  mind.     Louise  Amis,  Springfield." 

"Miss?" 

"Of  course,"  with  a  smile. 

"A-m-y?" 

"No — A-m-i-s." 

"  Oh,  yes — Amis.     Any  baggage  ?" 

"Not  now.  I  shall  be  here  only  a  short  time.  Will 
you  let  me  know  the  precise  address  of  Miss  Fanny 
Goodwin?  It  is  somewhere  on  Rutland  Square,  but  I 
have  forgotten  the  number." 


538  HOT  PL 0  WSHARE8. 

"  An  acquaintance  ?"  asked  the  clerk  carelessly. 

"A  school  friend." 

"Indeed!" 

He  started  off.  Just  as  he  reached  the  door  she 
called  him  back. 

"  How  very  stupid  of  me  !"  she  said.  "  I  suppose 
you  want  pay  for  your  room  in  advance  ?" 

"That  is  our  rule  where  guests  have  no  baggage," 
politely. 

"I  ought  to  have  known;  but  I  never  traveled  so 
far  alone  before,"  she  said  innocently  and  truthfully. 

She  took  out  her  portemonnaie,  carelessly  showing  it 
to  be  well  lined  with  bills — thanks  to  Miss  Hunniwell's 
foresight.  She  gave  him  twice  as  much  as  he  asked. 
He  went  away,  and  the 'servant  came  and  showed  her 
to  a  room.  Her  first  lesson  in  dissimulation  was  over. 
She  was  safe,  and  had  time  to  breathe  before  taking 
another  step.  She  read  the  morning  paper.  There 
was  a  brief  notice  of  some  excitement  in  Blankshire  by 
reason  of  an  alleged  attempt  at  kidnapping.  There 
were  not  more  than  ten  lines,  and  only  a  vague  allusion 
to  herself.  It  seemed  strange  that  what  was  of  such 
importance  to  her  should  be  of  so  little  moment  to  the 
Avorld.  She  ate  her  breakfast,  went  out  and  Avandered 
about  the  narrow  streets,  bright  and  quiet,  with  the 
Sabbath  hush  upon  them.  She  saw  Faneuil  Hall,  the 
Common,  the  quaint  old  graveyard  full  of  headstones 
whose  names  are  an  epitome  of  history.  She  wandered 
into  a  church.  The  notes  of  the  organ  soothed  her. 
The  accents  of  a  grand  old  hymn  whose  echoes  seemed 
burdened  with  greetings  of  good  cheer  from  the  brave 
hearts  of  the  past  strengthened  and  consoled  her  spirit. 
Then  she  returned  to  her  room  in  the  hotel  with  a 
dazed,  unreal  feeling,  as  if  she  were  not  herself  but 
another.  She  laid  down  upon  the  bed  to  think.  She 
did  not  know  that  she  was  at  all  fatigued,  but  hardly  had 


THE  EFFECT  OF  A  SIDE  LIGHT.  539 

her  head  touched  the  pillow  when  she  fell  asleep,  won- 
dering even  in  her  dreams  how  she  could  be  an  out- 
cast in  a  city  founded  as  a  refuge  and  consecrated  to 
liberty  and  equality. 

When  she  awoke  the  day  was  already  declining.  A 
boy  was  calling  an  "Extra."  She  looked  out  and  saw 
the  crowd  buying  with  avidity.  She  opened  the  win- 
dow and  listened.  "All  about  the  kidnapping!"  she 
heard  him  cry.  She  called  a  servant  and  procured  a 
copy — a  small,  square  sheet  printed  on  one  side  only. 
Could  it  be  that  her  flight  was  sufficient  to  stir  the 
drowsy  Sabbath  quiet  of  the  city  ?  Had  fate  pursued  her 
so  quickly  ?  Would  not  the  world  give  her  sanctuary  in 
its  great  throbbing  heart  ?  Must  she  indeed  flee  into 
the  wilderness  ?  Sure  enough,  it  was  all  there.  The 
world  had  waked  to  the  terror  that  haunted  her  life. 
She  read  it  all — a  whole  column  by  telegraph,  with 
staring  head-lines,  and  another  of  editorial  remarks. 
She  read  all  about  herself — some  of  it  truth  and  some 
of  it  queer  conjecture.  Her  father's  life  and  death  were 
commented  on.  Her  position,  supposed  wealth,  accom- 
plishments and  beauty  were  all  stated.  The  descrip- 
tion given  was  very  accurate.  She  almost  feared  she 
might  be  recognized.  Then  she  read — what  was  this  ? 
Amy,  Mr.  Anderson,  Martin  !  Wounds  !  Bloodshed ! 
Great  excitement !  Talk  of  lynching  !  Jared  Clarkson 
to  arrive  to-morrow  ! 

Her  head  swam  as  she  read,  but  she  still  read  on  to 
the  end.  Then  she  bathed  her  hot  face,  combed  her 
hair,  putting  up  the  curls  she  had  been  accustomed  to 
wear,  and  throwing  it  out  upon  each  side  by  the  use  of 
puff-combs  which  she  had  never  used  before.  She  was 
Merwyn  Hargrove's  daughter  still,  she  said  to  herself, 
and  she  would  not  flinch  from  anything  that  might  im- 
pend. She  surveyed  herself  in  the  glass,  and  smiled 
at  her  own  apprehension  as  she  read  over  again  the 


540  HOT  PL  0  WSIhiRES. 

concluding  statement  in  regard  to  the  events  described : 
"It  is  believed  that  Miss  Hargrove  has  fled  to  Canada 
or  is  still  hidden  in  the  vicinity.  Her  complete  disap- 
pearance is  certainly  a  mystery." 

When  she  went  down  to  dinner  her  flushed  cheeks 
and  bright  eyes  enhanced  her  usual  charms.  More  than 
one  glance  of  admiration  followed  her  as  she  was  shown 
to  a  seat.  The  tables  were  full.  Two  gentlemen  and 
a  lady  sat  at  the  one  with  her.  The  gentlemen  were 
reading  the  Uttle  "Extra"  and  discussing  the  news 
from  Blankshire.  A  great  many  in  the  room  seemed 
to  be  engaged  in  like  manner.  She  heard  some  at  a 
table  back  of  her  talking  upon  the  same  subject.  At 
first  she  was  frightened.  Then  she  saw  that  every  one 
was  too  absorbed  in  the  "event  to  suspect  her  of  being 
one  of  the  actors  in  it. 

"This  is  horrible!"  said  the  young  man  who  sat 
opposite. 

"It  is  a  very  aggravated  case,  as  far  as  concerns  the 
rank  and  station  of  the  intended  victim.  Otherwise  it 
is  no  worse  than  a  hundred  cases  that  have  occurred 
under  this  infamous  law."  The  speaker  was  a  gray- 
bearded,  grave-faced  man  who  sat  at  the  end  of  the 
table.  ■ 

"Well,  I  am  glad  the  girl  got  aAvay,  anyhow,"  said 
the  young  man. 

"  So  am  I,"  said  the  lady  heartily. 

Hilda  felt  her  cheeks  burn  and  tears  come  into  her 
eyes.  She  wished  they  knew  how  grateful  the  fugitive 
was  for  their  sympathy. 

"And  I  am  very  sori*y,"  said  the  grave  elderly  man 
in  a  soft,  earnest  tone. 

Hilda  started  and  turned  a  pale,  frightened  face  to- 
ward him. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  young  lady,  I  am  not  so  cruel  as 
you  think  me," 


THE  EFFECT  OF  A  SIDE  LIGHT.  541 

The  color  came  back  to  her  face,  and  she  bent  her 
head  over  her  plate  to  hide  her  confusion. 

"  Yet  I  cannot  but  regret,"  he  continued,  "the  escape 
of  the  kidnappers'  intended  prey.  I  know  enslavement 
would  have  been  unutterably  sad  to  her,  but  it  is  only 
by  such  shining  examples  that  the  nation  can  be  awak- 
ened to  the  enormity  of  slavery.  What  I  say  seems 
heartless,  no  doubt,  but  I  verily  believe  that  the  ap- 
plication of  this  infamous  law  to  just  such  a  case  as 
this  would  do  more  to  arouse  the  land,  to  awaken 
conscience,  to  weaken  slavery  and  promote  the  cause  of 
liberty,  than  the  return  to  bondage  of  a  thousand  men 
and  women  who  have  fled  from  oppression,  and  are  at 
the  best  only  toilers  Avho  have  rebelled  against  an  un- 
toward fate.  In  this  case  it  is  different.  We  see  one 
snatched  from  a  home  of  luxury,  from  the  most  polished 
society,  from  friends  and  love,  and  sought  to  be  thrust 
into  nothingness.  I  admit  that  it  would  be  terrible  to 
her — death  itself  would  be  preferable — but  I  certainly 
believe  that  her  sufferings  would  be  worth  ten  thousand 
lives  in  the  beneficent  results  that  would  flow  therefrom. 
We  mourn  the  virgin  martyrs  of  the  arena  and  the 
catacombs,  but  none  the  less  we  know  that  their  blood 
was  in  truth  the  seed  of  the  church,  and  thank  God 
that  it  was  shed.  I  meant  the  young  lady  no  harm,  but 
I  wish  the  slave  release  from  bondage.  The  loss  of  one 
life  is  as  nothing  to  the  evil  that  keeps  a  race  in  degra- 
dation." 

Hilda  gazed  into  the  soft  gray  eyes,  and  seemed  to 
feel  a  new  light  in  her  soul.  As  she  listened  to  his 
words  she  forgot  all  feeling  of  apprehension  for  herself. 
She  gazed  at  him  in  a  fixed,  absorbed  manner,  which 
he  mistook  for  inquiry,  and  resumed,  addressing  him- 
self unconsciously  to  her,  while  the  others  listened  with 
respectful  attention. 

"You  see,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  " the  world  is  ruled 


542  II 0  T  PL  0  WSHARES. 

by  great  examples.  Influence  is  only  the  power  of  ex- 
ample ;  but  if  the  example  be  petty  the  influence  will 
be  weak.  Religion  itself  is  but  the  force  of  the  highest 
example.  The  power  that  thrills  the  life  of  eighteen 
centuries  is  not  the  word  of  God.  The  Logos  of  the 
Apostle  was  weak  and  vain  until  it  was  framed  in  the 
life  of  Jesus  Christ.  The  cross  and  the  crown  of  thorns 
gave  vitality  to  Christian  truth.  Without  the  Man 
Christ  Jesus  the  written  word  would  have  been  naught 
to  us.  The  sacrifice  of  Virginia  overthrew  the  tyrant. 
Jeanne  d'Arc  led  and  triumphed  through  the  unfear- 
ing  intensity  of  her  devotion.  Always  it  has  been 
an  example  that  has  moved  the  world  forward  and 
overthrown  evil.  "By-and-by  slavery  will  demand  a  sac- 
rifice— so  notable,  so  cruel  and  so  needless — that  the 
whole  land  will  be  smitten  with  horror,  and  the  institu- 
tion will  disappear  in  the  blaze  of  public  wrath.  It  is 
not  abstract  truth  that  moves  men's  hearts,  but  alwa3"S 
the  concrete.  This  young  woman's  father  might  have 
been  a  shining  example,  and  his  death  would  have  done 
a  vast  injury  to  slavery,  but  no  one  seemed  to  under- 
Btand  just  the  cause  of  it.  While  he  seems  to  have 
been  bitterly  opposed  to  slavery  he  was  yet  animated 
by  a  feeling  of  angry  defiance,  rather  than  of  sacrificial 
oflfering  up  of  himself  for  the  good  of  another." 

"I  think  he  was  animated  by  a  sense  of  duty  and 
of  honor,"  said  Hilda  quietly. 

"There  can  be  no  doubt  of  that,"  rejoined  the 
stranger,  in  the  same  persuasive  tones,  and  with  the 
same  clear  light  in  his  great  gray  eyes;  "but a  sense  of 
duty  may  impel  to  acts  which,  although  meritorious,  are 
yet  not  impressive.  I  may  eat  my  dinner  from  a  sense 
of  duty,  but  others  will  wait  for  an  appetite  before  they 
follow  my  example.  Honor,  too,  is  apt  to  be  tainted 
with  selfishness,  and  it  is  only  the  example  of  self-sac- 


THE  EFFECT  OF  A  SIDE  LIGHT.  543 

rifice  that  lives  and  moves  the  world  to  noble  deeds. 
This  man — w^hat  was  his  name  ?" 

"  Hargrove,"  said  Hilda  absently, 

"Yes,  Hargrove,  Merwyn  Hargrove  —  I  remember 
seeing  him  once  a  few  years  ago — was  of  the  type  that 
heroes  are  made  of,  but  he  was  too  self-bounded,  too 
oblivious  of  the  world  outside  of  the  tasks  he  seems  to 
have  set  himself  to  accomplish,  to  make  a  good  martyr. 
He  perhaps  released  more  slaves  than  any  man  living, 
and  actually  sacrificed  more  money  to  do  it  than  any 
Northern  philanthropist  has  ever  thought  of  doing.  He 
did  his  work  thoroughly,  too.  He  took  the  slaves  to 
Hayti  and  purchased  for  them  there  a  tract  of  land  of 
which  each  had  his  due  share  in  fee.  He  freed  them, 
and  provided  for  their  safety  and  support.  At  the 
same  time,  he  did  this,  not  because  of  his  love  for  the 
slave,  nor  even  because  of  his  hatred  for  slavery — 
though  that  was  no  doubt  intense — but  for  some  reason 
noble  and  chivalric  enough  perhaps,  but  applicable  only 
to  himself     He  was  a  hero,  but  not  a  martyr." 

"  A  hero  but  not  a  martyi-,"  murmured  Hilda.  "You 
may  be  right." 

"  The  distinction  is  a  fair  one,"  continued  the  stranger. 
"Moreover,  the  martyr  will  yet  appear.  The  encroach- 
ments of  slavery  are  daily  coming  home  to  our  Northern 
life.  The  blood  that  furnished  martyrs  under  Bloody 
Mary  runs  in  our  veins,  and  the  day  is  not  far  distant 
when  the  Martyr  will  appear.  He  will  testify  of  the 
truth  in  such  a  way  that  all  men  will  believe." 

"  I  think  I  know  the  man,"  she  said  absently. 

The  stranger  gazed  at  her  a  moment  in  silence,  and 
then  remarked  slowly  and  solemnly  : 

"I  also  have  seen  one  whom  I  have  sometimes  thought 
might  bear  testimony  of  the  truth  for  us  all.  Whether 
one    shall    suffice,   or    shall   only    be    a    forerunner  of 


544  HOT  FLO WSSARES. 

many  whose  blood  must  purge  away  our  sin,  God 
knoweth." 

"Why  do  you  say  o?/r  sin  ?"  asked  the  younger  man. 

"Because,"  replied  the  other,  "  it  is  ours.  We  make 
a  grave  mistake  when  we  seek  to  cast  tlie  blame  of 
slavery  on  the  South.  A  cancer  does  not  belong  to  the 
limb  on  which  it  appears,  but  to  the  whole  body  that 
suffers  from  the  poison  that  it  generates.  We  of  the 
North  are  even  more  responsible  for  the  evils  of  slavery 
than  they  of  the  South,  because  we  perceive  and  admit 
them  and  they  do  not." 

"  But  do  they  believe  it  right  ?" 

"Unquestionably.  They  not  only  believe  it  right, 
but  they  believe  it  to  be  the  onl}^  way  in  which  the  two 
races  can  co-exist  upon  this  continent." 

"But  why  should  they  attempt  to  get  hold  of  tliis 
young  lady  in  this  manner  ?  Her  friends  would  no  doubt 
have  raised  more  money  than  she  is  worth  as  a  slave." 

"  You  forget  that  Hargrove  was  a  very  wealthy  man. 
This  is  probably  an  attempt  to  induce  her  to  release  all 
claim  on  his  estate." 

"  Indeed  !"  said  the  young  man  in  surprise. 

"  I  merely  judge  that  from  the  fact  you  have  men- 
tioned; but  if  she  is  Hargrove's  daughter,  they  have 
made  a  mistake." 

"  You  knew  him  ?" 

"  No,  but  I  have  heard  Jared  Clarkson  speak  of  him 
more  than  once.  He  came  of  fighting  stock,  and  if  she 
has  his  blood  they  may  have  caught  a  tartar." 

"I  hope  the  Lord  they  have!"  said  the  young  man 
fervently. 

"So  do  I,"  said  the  lady  earnestly.  "They  might 
have  waited  till  she  was  out  of  mourning  for  her  father, 
anyhow." 

This  feminine  view  of  the  situation  provoked  a  burst 


THE  EFFECT  OF  A  SIDE  LIGHT.  545 

of  laughter,  in  Avhich  Hilda  could  not  help  joining  de- 
spite the  sad  thought  it  evoked. 

Then  the  conversation  drifted  off  into  other  chan- 
nels. Hilda  finished  her  meal  without  feeling  any  fear 
of  detection.  Indeed,  she  thought  she  would  have  felt 
rather  glad  to  be  recognized.  Her  fear  seemed  so  petty 
and  foolish.  She  blushed  as  she  tried  to  fancy  what  her 
father  would  have  thought  of  her  cowardly  flight.  But 
he  should  have  no  more  cause  to  blush  for  her.  She 
felt  the  blood  of  the  Hargroves  coursing  through  her 
veins,  and  she  would  show  the  world  that  she  was  her 
father's  daughter  and  worthy  of  his  name,  as  he  had 
said  in  his  will.  When  the  meal  was  over,  she  went  to 
her  room  to  think  of  the  future  in  the  new  light  the 
hour  had  cast  upon  it. 


CHAPTER  XLIIi. 

THAT  NOTHING  BE  LOST. 

Some  of  the  events  that  occurred  in  and  about  Burl- 
ingdale  during  the  week  that  followed  the  attempted 
abduction  are  worthy  of  record,  though  they  may  not 
seem  directly  to  concern  the  chief  characters  of  our 
story. 

Beechwood  Seminary  was  in  a  tumult  after  the  enact- 
ment of  a  double  tragedy  at  its  very  doors.  The  crimson 
drops  along  the  hall  and  down  the  steps  were  cleansed 
without  delay  from  the  polished  ash,  but  in  a  hundred 
tender  hearts  they  were  ineftaceably  fixed.  Not  a 
slippered  foot  crossed  where  this  line  of  horror  had 
been  without  a  thrill  of  fear.  The  broken  ladder, 
the  battle-ground  beneath  the  window,  the  blood-stains 
in  the  steep  wood-road,  the  recollection  of  the  com- 
panion who  had  been  ravished  from  their  midst,  just 
missing  a  bloody  death ;  the  mystery  surrounding  the 
fate  of  that  other  schoolmate,  who  had  vanished  out 
of  their  hfe  and  left  no  trace — these  were  too  fertile 
themes  for  girlish  imagining  to  permit  the  routine  of 
task  and  recitation  to  go  on  from  da}"^  to  daj'^  with  any 
profit.  Indeed,  the  principal  was  soon  convinced  that 
it  would  be  at  the  risk  of  very  serious  peril  to  the  health 
of  her  pupils  should  they  remain  during  the  balance  of 
the  term.  The  nervous  strain  to  which  they  had  been 
exposed  began  almost  inmiediately  to  show  itself  on 
some  of  the  more  susceptible  of  them.  The  conscien- 
tious teacher  did  not  hesitate  an  instant  when  the 
health  of  her  jjupils  was  set  over  against  her  own  ad- 
546 


THAT  NOTHING  BE  LOST.  547 

vantage.  Within  a  week  the  shivering  brood  were 
scattered  to  their  homes,  and  the  tragedy  of  Beechwood 
was  rehearsed  over  and  over  again  at  a  hundred  distant 
firesides  by  pale-faced  narrators,  who  shuddered  as  they 
boastfully  declared,  "I  was  there,  you  know."  There 
were  none  left  at  the  seminary  save  a  few  scholars 
whose  homes  were  most  remote,  two  or  three  teachers, 
the  slowly-recuperating  invalid  and  his  dusky  nurse. 
For  the  first  time  in  a  quarter  of  a  century  the  routine 
of  Beechwood  was  broken  up.  In  the  midst  of  term- 
time  its  halls  were  silent.  The  vacation  antedated  the 
Christmas  holidays  that  year  by  almost  a  month.  To 
each  of  her  patrons  Miss  Hunniwell  forwarded  a  brief 
statement  of  the  causes  which  led  to  this  decision  on  her 
part,  discounting  the  term-bills  which  she  sent  out  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  abbreviation  of  the  school-year  i-esult- 
ing  therefrom.  In  a  vain  attempt  to  hold  what  it  deemed 
its  own,  Slavery  had  thrust  its  ghastliest  shadow  into  a 
hundred  households.  Every  family  altar  seemed  violated 
by  the  invasion  of  Beechwood.  The  sanctuary  of  the 
vestal  virgins  had  been  invaded.  The  treasury  wherein 
a  hundred  families  had  placed  their  most  priceless 
jewels  had  been  broken,  and  one  had  been  reft  thence 
by  force.  Many  a  mother  shuddered  as  she  pressed  her 
loved  one  to  her  bosom,  and  thought  that  she  might 
have  been  the  victim.  Many  a  father's  look  grew  stern 
as  he  considered  the  danger  his  child  had  shared,  and 
uttered  to  himself  again  the  question  which  the  prophet 
of  the  prairie  had  propounded  to  his  counti-ymen,  "All 
free  or  all  slave  V"  Many  a  brother's  heart  was  conse- 
crated by  the  blood  of  one  innocent  beautiful  victim  to 
do  knightly  service  against  the  monster  that  lived  on 
human  lives. 

Upon  the  second  day  after  the  abduction  Jared  Clark- 
son  arrived  in  the  little  village.    The  excitement,  which 


548  HOT  PL 0 WSSABES. 

was  already  intense,  was  greatly  heightened  b}'^  his  pres- 
ence. He  seemed  worn,  depressed,  disheai'tened.  To 
the  swarm  of  friends  and  co-workers  in  the  cause  of 
libert}',  who  crowded  around  him  and  hailed  his  coming 
with  delight,  his  language  and  manner  were  most  un- 
satisfactory. He  had  come  solely  upon  private  busi- 
ness, he  said.  Instead  of  gladly  lending  his  presence 
and  eloquence  to  give  eclat  to  a  demonstration  intended 
to  improve  the  occasion  and  deepen  the  anti-slavery 
sentiments  of  the  community,  he  pleaded  fatigue,  head- 
ache and  important  and  burdensome  engagements.  He 
finally  compromised  with  the  committee  by  agreeing  to 
attend  the  meeting  if  not  asked  to  speak.  To  this 
they  readily  assented — a  compromise  made  only  to  be 
broken.  The  result  wd^s  a  speech  so  full  of  sorrow  and 
despair  that  they  who  heard  it  wondered  if  they  really 
were  listening  to  that  ever-jubilant  prophet  of  victory 
whose  optimism  nothing  had  been  able  to  daunt  until 
that  hour.  They  knew  not  that  Jared  Clarksou  spoke 
with  a  burden  of  sorrow  he  had  never  known  before — 
a  burden  to  which  he  dared  not  refer  lest  some  un- 
guarded expression  might  enhance  the  woe  of  an  inno- 
cent victim.  He  knew  full  well  the  curse  that  rested 
over  the  fugitive  girl.  To  him  all  classes  and  con- 
ditions of  men  were  alike.  To  him  the  Gospel  message 
had  come  with  the  force  and  vitality  it  bore  in  that 
earlier  time,  when,  in  one  day,  it  melted  the  chains  of 
five  thousand  bondsmen  of  a  noble  Roman.  Race  or 
color  were  no  disabling  conditions  of  his  favor.  He 
knew  that  there  were  some  like  him — but,  oh,  so  few ! 
He  well  knew  that  if  the  One  Divine  should  come  to 
earth  clad  in  the  livery  of  a  dusky  skin,  while  there 
were  thousands,  aye,  millions,  who  would  give  Him 
charity — the  dole  of  condescending  pity  —  there  were 
almost  none  who  would  or  could  make  Him  welcome  in 
home  and  heart.     He  knew — none  better  than  he — how 


THAT  NOTHING  BE  LOST  549 

the  brand  of  color  made  its  possessor  an  outcast  in  the 
land  of  his  birth.  He  knew  how  it  barred  the  way  to 
rank  and  station  and  opportunity — how  it  paralyzed  the 
hand  of  friendship  and  blighted  the  heart  of  love.  He 
knew,  too, — oh,  the  bitterness  of  that  knowledge  ! — how 
his  heart  burned  as  it  throbbed  against  the  papers  in  his 
pocket — for  he  dared  not  part  with  them  lest  another 
should  learn  the  fearful  truth.  He  knew  that,  some- 
where in  the  dark,  cold  night,  somewhere  in  the  cheer- 
less, crowded,  crushing  world,  Hilda,  the  child  of  luxury 
and  love ;  Hilda,  petted  and  beautiful  and  bright ; 
Hilda,  the  daughter  of  the  dead  friend,  who  had  trusted 
him  with  the  cursed  secret  of  her  birth,  in  order  that 
he  might  shield  her  from  sorrow  and  harm ;  Plilda, 
his  ward  in  Heaven's  Chancery,  was  fleeing  none  knew 
whither  or  to  what — refuge  or  death  !  No  wonder  that 
his  voice  faltered.  Of  all  the  slaves  the  earth  had 
known  there  was  but  one  that  lived  in  his  memory  in 
that  hour — the  one  for  whose  safety  he  was  surety  to  a 
dead  friend.  No  wonder  his  brain  throbbed  with  agony  ! 
No  wonder  his  heart  was  bursting  with  despair !  The 
woe  he  was  charged  to  mitigate  was  beyond  human 
power  to  assuage.  Already  it  had  borne  fruit  in  the 
heart  of  its  victim.  The  leper  had  fled  into  the  wilder- 
ness, crying  back  with  the  agony  of  blighted  hope  and 
shattered  love,  "Unclean!  Unclean!"  Is  it  any  won- 
der that  he  forgot  slavery  in  pity  for  the  one  slave  whose 
life  was  in  his  hand's?  The  prophet  of  denunciation 
forgot  to  curse,  and  uttered  only  a  wail  of  hopeless 
woe.  The  public  were  disappointed.  His  friends  were 
disgusted.  They  had  come  for  blood,  and  received  in- 
stead only  an  oblation  of  tears  ! 

Martin  Kortright  was  disappointed  also.  He  had 
waited,  chafing  liked  a  caged  hyena  for  two  days,  because 
a  telegram  from  his  father  bade  him  wait  until  Jared 


550  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

Clarkson  came.  Already  he  had  lost  a  day  in  the  search 
to  which  his  life  must  be  given.  He  felt  strong  and 
confident.  There  were  two  things  he  would  do.  He 
would  first  disprove  the  lie.  His  Hilda — his  love,  his 
lily — he  had  no  fear  of  stain  upon  her  birth.  He  would 
trace  her  lineage.  He  would  prove  her  purity.  And, 
when  that  was  done — ah  !  then  he  would  find  her,  would 
give  the  record  into  her  hand,  and  offer  up  his  life  for  a 
kiss — a  smile — aye,  for  the  bare  knowledge  that  she  was 
no  longer  to  be  an  outcast  among  men.  He  was  not 
cast  down.  He  did  not  /lo/^e— he  was  confident— he  was 
sure.  His  only  sorrow  was  that  he  did  not  know  where 
Hilda  was,  so  that  he  might  assuage  her  grief.  He  was 
only  anxious  to  begin  his  labors,  that  he  might  by  a 
day,  by  an  hour,  hasten  his  triumph  and  shorten  her 
woe.  To  him  came  Jared  Clarkson  at  length,  with 
his  look  of  despair  and  the  confirmation  of  the  tale  of 
horror.    But  love  did  not  falter. 

"It  cannot  be,"  said  Martin.  "There  is  some  mis- 
take.    I  shall  unravel  it." 

Then  he  gave  the  lie  to  all  his  vows,  and  started  off 
to  seek,  not  the  truth  he  boasted  that  he  would  dis- 
cover, but  the  love  he  longed  to  comfort.  He  laughed 
at  her  behest  that  he  should  wait  until  she  came.  He 
would  defy  her  will — so  bold  is  love  !  He  would  over- 
turn the  world,  he  said — so  strong  is  love  !  He  would 
find  her  wheresoever  she  might  hide — so  sure  is  love ! 
He  would  rest  from  his  search  only  when  he  might  fall 
into  the  grave— so  true  is  fond  young  love  ! 

Martin's  incredulity  as  to  Clarkson's  conclusion  was 
based  first  upon  an  invincible  determination  not  to  be- 
lieve, and  second  upon  the  testimony  of  Jason  whose 
story  he  had  heard.  To  him  he  referred  this  trustee  of 
a  woeful  secret,  and  sped  away  exultantly  to  Sturmhold 
to  make  such  preparation  as  was  needful  for  the  search 


THAT  NOTHING  BE  LOST  551 

he  had  already  begun — for  mail  and  telegraph  had  al- 
ready conveyed  his  messages  of  inquiry  to  every  con- 
ceivable place  Avhere  the  fugitive  could  have  sought 
shelter.  Jared  Clarkson  heard  the  story  and  hoped. 
He  visited  the  seminary  and  talked  with  Miss  Hunni- 
well.  He  believed  in  woman's  intuition,  and  her  buoy- 
ant faith  strengthened  the  hope  he  sought  to  cherish. 
He  even  tried  to  forget  the  damning  testimony  already 
in  his  possession.  He  was  a  man  of  business  habits, 
however;  prudent,  sagacious,  painstaking,  though  over- 
credulous  when  once  he  had  accepted  any  hypothesis. 
He  cross-examined  Jason  carefully  : 

"  You  remember  when  Hilda  Avas  born  ?" 

"Perfectly,  sah." 

"  It  Avas  in  the  West  Indies  ?" 

"  At  Kingston,  sah." 

"Do  you  know  the  name  of  the  house  at  which  they 
were  stopping?" 

"  It  was  a  private  house,  sah  ;  a  minister's.  I  stayed 
on  the  sloop,  but  Avent  up  to  the  house  to  see  if  any- 
thing Avas  Awanted  nigh  about  every  day." 

"Did  you  see  the  child  christened  ?" 

"  That  I  did,  an'  one  of  the  man's  daughters  where 
they  lived  was  its  god-mammy,  too.  She  did  look  pow- 
erful nice,  all  in  white,  Avid  the  little  baby  in  her  arms." 

"Was  the  child  healthy  ?" 

"Powerful  puny,  sah;  an'  Miss  Retta  were  poorly, 
too.  Atter  it  war  a  few  months  old  Ave  took  'em  both 
aboard  the  sloop,  an'  tried  cruisin'  roun'  for  a  spell,  but 
they  couldn't  stan'  it  nohoAV — not  even  to  go  roun'  the 
island,  you  know.  So  we  put  back,  an'  Marse  MerAvyn 
an'  me  come  to  the  States  for  awhile  to  look  after  some 
of  that  pesky  Mallerbank  business,  that  hain't  never 
been  nothin'  but  trouble  an'  trouble,  an'  no  good  comin' 
out  on  't.  When  Ave  Avent  back  Miss  Retta  Avarn't  no 
better,  an'  the  doctors  an'  all  hands  persuaded  her  to 


553  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

leave  the  baby  wid  Miss  Rickson — that  was  the  name 
of  the  family,  sail — while  she  come  back  with  Marse 
Merwyn." 

"  The  child  remained  with  Miss  Rickson  how  long  ?" 

"  Wal,  it  must  have  been  nigh  onto  two  years — 
p'raps  more.  She  hadn't  been  back  so  very  long  when 
Miss  Retta  died." 

"Were  you  with  Captain  Hargrove  when  he  brought 
his  daughter  away  from  Kingston  ?" 

"He  didn't  bring  her!"' 

"Who  did?" 

"Miss  Rickson  were  on  her  way  to  England,  you 
know,  wid  her  folks,  an'  she  brung  de  little  lady  on  to 
NcAv  York.     Leastways  dat  's  what  I  heard." 

"  You  did  not  see  "Miss  Rickson  when  she  brought 
the  child  on,  then  ?" 

"No,  sail.  The  Captain  went  down  a  few  days  afore. 
I  stayed  at  Sturmhold  'kase  he  was  just  packing  off  all 
de  ole  servants  dat  he  'd  done  set  free  an'  settlin'  ob  'em 
in  de  West,  an'  hirin'  new  ones.  Dat  Avas  de  time  he 
brung  Miss  Lida  back  wid  him." 

"Who  had  the  care  of  the  child  after  it  was  brought 
to  Sturmhold?" 

"Wal,  pretty  much  everybody.  Bein'  the  only  one 
she  ruled  the  whole  house ;  but,  of  course.  Miss  Lida 
was  the  nurse." 

"Was  she  as  fond  of  the  child  then  as  afterward  ?" 

"  Law,  yes,  sah  ;  an'  that  jealous  of  Miss  Retta  she  'd 
Stan'  an'  glare  at  her  while  she  was  pettin'  that  chile 
like  she  war  ready  to  eat  her  up." 

"When  did  you  first  hear  Alida  claim  that  Hilda  was 
her  child  ?" 

"Wal,  it  must  have  been  a  year  or  two  atter  Miss 
Retta  died." 

"  What  did  you  say  to  her  then  ?" 

"  Told  her  I  'd  slap  her  mouf  ef  I  ever  heard  her  talk- 


THAT  NOTHING  BE  LOST.  553 

ing  such  a  thing  again — ef  she  did  set  up  for  a  white 
woman." 

"What  did  she  say  in  reply  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothin'  at  allc  She  's  jes'  a  pore,  no-Vount, 
silly  creetur'',  anyhow.  Marse  Merwyn  was  powerful  put 
out  that  I  'd  threatened  to  slap  her  mouf,  an'  told  me  I 
warn't  never  to  pay  no  'tention  to  anything  she  said." 

"  She  had  a  child  ahout  Hilda's  age,  did  she  not  ?" 

"  There  was  some  few  months  difference  atwixt  'em. 
I  don't  mind  which  was  the  oldest  now." 

"  Did  Alida's  child  resemble  Hilda  ?" 

"  Well,  it  did  have  dark  eyes  an'  hair,  but  not  such 
eyes  and  hair  as  our  Hilda — not  by  any  manner  of 
means." 

"Now,  Jason,  tell  us  honestly,  what  became  of  Alida's 
daughter  ?" 

"  Lida's  gal !  Lida's  gal !"  exclaimed  Jason,  springing 
from  his  chair.  "  I  hain't  got  no  right  to  tell  you  any- 
thing 'bout  her,  Marse  Clarkson.  I  knows  yer  don't 
mean  no  harm,  but  I  jiromised  Marse  Merwyn  I 
wouldn't  never  mention  the  lightest  word  'bout  that  gal 
'cept  I  had  his  written  orders  ter  do  so,  or  Miss  Hilda 
axed  me  wid  her  own  sweet  mouf  atter  he  war  dead. 
An'  I  can't  break  no  promise  ter  Marse  Merwyn,  no- 
how." 

"Well,"  said  Clarkson,  "I  have  here  his  written  ap- 
peal to  you  to  enlighten  me  upon  this  point."  He  drew 
forth  Hargrove's  letter  and  read  the  passage  referring  to 
Jason. 

"Dat  ain't  givin'  me  no  leave,"  said  Jason,  skeptically. 
"  It  says  I  can  tell,  but  don't  once  say  I  shall  tell." 

"Jason,"  said  Clarkson  solemnly,  "Captain  Hargrove 
left  a  parcel  with  me  which  he  said  would  inform  me  of  the 
identity  of  the  daughter  of  George  and  Alida  Eighmie." 

"Then  you  don't  need  to  ax  Jason,"  said  the  man 
shrewdly. 


554  HOT  FLOWSJIABES. 

"The  information  is  not  direct,  but  jet  it  is  entirely 
conclusive  to  my  mind.  The  package  contained  only 
the  bills  for  Hilda's  tuition  here  at  BeecliAVOod." 

"  That 's  queer  !"  said  Jason,  with  a  puzzled  look. 

"  In  other  Avords,  3" our  old  master  says  to  me  this 
paper  will  tell  you  who  is  Alida's  child,  and  hands  me 
one  of  Miss  Huuuiwell's  bills  for  Hilda's  board  and 
tuition.     What  do  you  say  to  that  ?" 

"  Wal,  Marse  Clarkson,  'tain't  my  place  to  say  nothin' 
'bout  it,  'cept  I  has  Marse  Merwyn's  orders,  an'  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to,  nuther;  but  ef  I  shmcld  say  anything,"  he 
added  slyly,  "I'd  say  that  'cordin'  ter  my  notion, 
there 'd  been  a  mistake  somewhar  or  somewhar  else." 

"  And  you  refuse  to  tell  me  what  you  know  ?" 

"Unless  yer  has  Marse  Merwyn's  orders." 

"Then  I  must  follow  the  light  I  have  and  regard 
Hilda  as  the  daughter  of  Alida," 

"  'Pears  like  yer  all  mighty  anxious  to  make  a  nigger 
outen  the  pore  gal,"  said  the  old  servant  sullenly.  "But 
Jason  's  had  his  orders,  an'  he  ain't  a-goin'  ter  break 
'em  for  no  man's  foolishness,  dat  he  ain't." 

This  conversation  had  the  effect  to  confirm  Clarkson 
in  his  previous  belief,  and  to  cause  the  teacher  to  ap- 
peal anew  to  God  for  a  solution  of  the  mystery. 

The  wound  Avhich  Amy  Hargrove  had  received  proved 
to  be  less  serious  than  at  first  supposed.  The  shot  had 
glanced  around,  instead  of  passing  through  a  vital  part. 
Upon  the  second  day  the  doctor  was  able  to  announce 
that  the  hurt  was  not  a  serious  one.  Eighmie  and 
Marsden  were  thereupon  released  on  bail,  so  heavy, 
however,  that  they  were  compelled  to  remain  in  the 
village  in  order  to  satisfy  the  apprehensions  of  their 
bondsmen.  The  injured  girl  Avas  at  first  the  object  of 
unbounded  sympathy ;  but  her  conduct  was  not  alto- 
gether Avhat  those  who  came  to  condole  with  her  ex-r 


THAT  NOTHING  BE  LOST.  555 

pected.  Some  very  uncharitably  declared  that  she  was 
rather  proud  than  otherwise  of  her  part  in  this  mid- 
night adventure.  She  had  no  word  of  blame  for  the 
men  who  had  been  guilty  of  lawless  violence,  or  of  the 
institution  at  whose  doors  all  seemed  anxious  to  lay  the 
blame  for  her  suffering. 

"It  was  all  a  mistake,"  she  said  in  a  quiet,  matter- 
of-course  tone.  "They  are  gentlemen  and  did  not 
intend  me  any  harm.  They  would  have  brought  me 
back  as  soon  as  they  found  I  was  not  the  slave  they 
were  seeking." 

Indeed,  she  seemed  to  blame  only  two  people  for  the 
harm  that  had  befallen  her — Hilda  and  Mr.  Anderson. 
Of  the  former  she  would  say  nothing.  ;iS[o  expression  of 
sympathy  for  the  unfortunate  girl,  nor  any  burst  of  in- 
dignation against  her  intended  captors  could  elicit  a 
word  of  regret  or  disapproval  from  the  quiet  figure  that 
occupied  the  bed  in  the  dimly-lighted  guest-chamber  of 
the  parsonage.  Those  who  watched  her  at  such  times 
could  only  note  that  the  little  weazened  face  grew  a 
trifle  whiter  and  harder  in  its  outlines ;  the  naiTOw 
brow  contracted  and  the  black  eyes  rolled  from  side  to 
side  under  the  half-shut  lids  with  suppressed  excite- 
ment. Of  the  minister  she  only  said  that  he  no  doubt 
meant  well  enough,  but  his  interference  at  that  par- 
ticular time  was  very  unfortunate  for  her.  The  message 
which  the  doctor  brought  from  Eighmie  gave  her  evi- 
dent pleasure,  and  she  insisted  on  being  given  a  pencil 
and  a  sheet  of  paper  that  she  might  reply.  The  doctor 
protested  angrily,  but  she  had  her  way,  and  wrote  : 

"Sir  :  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  I  am  not  more  in 
fault  than  you.  Of  course,  you  would  never  have  made 
the  attempt  but  for  the  information  I  gave.  In  doing  what 
I  did  I  bad  no  thought  that  yo;i  would  try  to  obtain  pos- 
session of  the  impostor  from  whose  pretensions  I  had  been 
an  especial  sufferer  by  such  means.     I  was  angry  at  the 


556  HOT  PL 0  W SHARE 8. 

fraud  practiced  upon  me  and  others,  and  intended  sim ply- 
to  notify  you  that  the  girl  you  sought  was  still  in  the 
house.  I  am  sorry,  on  many  accounts,  that  I  did  so,  but 
beg  to  assure  you  that  I  entertain  no  unkindly  feeling 
toward  you  because  of  the  result. 

"Respectfully,  Amy  Hargkove." 

The  grim  old  doctor  carried  the  missive  to  the  man  to 
whom  it  was  addressed,  after  having  perused  it  care- 
fully, who  inquired  in  astonishment : 

"  Who  is  this  young  lady  ?" 

"One  of  your  own  sort,  I  suppose,'-  answered  the 
blunt  physician.  "She  comes  from  the  South,  is  an 
heiress,  and  probably  sympathizes  with  you  in  your 
disappointment. " 

"She  is  a  lady,  anyhow,"  responded  Eighmic  with 
severe  emphasis ;  "  and  anything  that  I  can  do  to  com- 
pensate her  for  the  injury  I  shall  cheerfully  do." 

After  the  first  day  Amy  was  undisturbed  by  visits  of 
condolence.  Miss  Hunniwell  came  once  or  twice,  but 
she  was  a  poor  dissembler,  and  kncAv  enough  of  Amy's 
treachery  to  her  friend  to  feel  a  profound  disgust  for 
her,  which  if  not  expressed  could  hardly  be  said  to  be 
concealed.  She  was  kindly  cared  for  by  the  minister's 
household ;  a  few  formal  inquiries  were  made  each  day, 
but  by  some  means  or  other  the  idea  had  gotten  out  that 
if  not  actually  concerned  in  the  plot  to  abduct  Hilda  she 
was  by  no  means  averse  to  its  success. 

For  herself,  she  asked  no  questions.  If  she  noted  the 
unfriendly  coolness  that  came  to  pervade  the  manner  of 
all  who  approached  her,  she  made  no  sign.  She  obeyed 
the  instructions  of  the  physician  to  the  letter — remained 
absolutely  quiet,  avoided  all  conversation,  and  before 
the  excitement  attending  her  injury  had  subsided  Avas 
pronounced  able  to  be  removed  to  the  seminary.  Then, 
for  the  first  time  since  her  injury,  she  burst  into  tears, 
and  begged  to  be  allowed  to   i-emain  for   a  few  days 


THAT  NOTHING  BE  LOST.  557 

longer.  She  gave  no  reason,  nor  was  any  asked.  Her 
distress  was  too  apparent  not  to  awaken  the  sympathy 
of  the  good  parson  and  his  wife.  Their  hearts  were 
touched  by  her  grief,  and  they  not  only  assented  to  her 
wish,  but  sought  to  make  the  days  of  her  convalescence 
as  pleasant  as  they  could.  As  soon  as  she  was  able  she 
wrote  a  letter,  to  which  she  began  to  inquire  for  an  an- 
swer almost  before  it  had  been  mailed. 

The  people  of  Burlingdale  and  its  vicinity  felt  a  cer- 
tain proprietary  interest  in  the  attempted  abduction. 
The  town  had  in  no  way  been  celebrated  above  its 
neighbors  thitherto.  Its  people  had  been  good  and  bad, 
rich  and  poor,  notable  and  insignificant,  in  the  due  pro- 
portion of  the  average  New  England  village.  One 
murder  away  back  in  the  time  of  Shay's  war  had  made 
the  whole  region  where  the  house  had  stood  more 
famous  than  the  muster  of  the  rebels.  It  was  only  a 
vulgar  murder  of  the  meanest  sort,  however.  There 
had  been  a  fair  average  of  suicides  and  accidents, 
some  big  fires  and  a  "pretty  sizeable"  dam-breaking, 
but  nothing  to  compare  with  this  affair  at  Beechwood 
in  the  elements  of  a  first-class  sensation.  In  less  than 
forty-eight  hours  after  it  became  known  every  inhabit- 
ant of  Burlingdale  felt  that  it  was  an  honor  to  dwell 
in  a  town  that  was  the  scene  of  such  a  tragedy.  Every 
man,  woman  and  child  had  seen  all  that  was  visible, 
heard  all  that  could  be  found  out,  guessed  until  their 
powers  of  invention  were  exhausted,  and  waited  in  dig- 
nified and  expectant  silence  for  what  the  morrow  would 
bring  forth.  But  the  morrow  was  wretchedly  barren. 
So  was  the  next  day  and  the  next,  until  the  people 
began  to  murmur.  Before  the  week  was  ended,  public 
indignation  could  no  longer  be  restrained.  Not  only 
the  people  but  the  local  press  declared  that  the  course 
which  had  been  pursued  by  all  those  Avho  might  reason- 


55g  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

abl)^  be  supposed  to  have  aii}-  knowledge  of  the  aftair 
had  been  most  extraordinary. 

In  all  that  had  occuri'ed  since  the  commission  of  the 
crime,  it  was  vmiversally  declared  that  the  public  had 
been  treated  very  shabbily.  There  had  been  a  reserve, 
almost  a  mystery,  attaching  to  the  actors  in  the  tragedy 
which  was  regarded  as  nothing  less  than  an  attempt  to 
defraud  it  of  prescriptive  rights.  A  thousand  questions 
had  been  left  unanswered,  and  the  most  persistent  inquiry 
in  every  quarter  had  failed  to  throw  light  upon  them. 

It  was  high  time,  everybody  felt,  that  such  persons 
should  understand  that  the  public  had  some  privileges 
which  they  were  bound  to  respect.  A  crime  was  a 
matter  in  regard  to  Avhich  the  people  had  a  right  to 
be  informed.  The  officers  of  justice  were  but  the  ser- 
vants of  the  people.  Jared  Clarksou  should  remein- 
ber  that  fame  was  inconsistent  with  secrecy.  As  a 
public  character  he  was  bound  to  render  an  account  of 
what  he  did  and  what  he  knew  to  those  whose  approval 
made  him  famous.  So,  too,  with  a  minister  of  the 
Gospel.  There  should  be  no  mystery  in  his  life.  A 
doctor  should  remember  also  that  the  suspicion  of  com- 
plicity with  crime  was  a  debasement  of  his  profession. 
The  public  clamored  for  knoM^ledge,  and  all  were  warned 
that  those  who  stood  in  the  path  of  its  desire  would 
find  that  they  were  standing  in  their  own  light  also. 
Each  and  all  of  those  having  any  knoAvledge  of  the  crime 
or  the  parties  thereto  were  exhorted  to  enlighten  the 
public  in  regard  to  it,  under  penalty  of  its  displeasure. 
These  were  some  of  the  questions  to  which  categorical 
answers  were  demanded  day  by  day  but  not  vouchsafed  : 

"  What  had  become  of  Hilda  ?" 

"Whoshot  Amy  ?" 

"  Who  was  it  that  came  so  near  killing  Barnes  ?" 

"  Why  had  Martin  Kortright  left  as  suddenly  as  he 
had  comeV" 


THAT  NOTHING  BE  LOST.  559 

"What  interest  had  Jared  Clarkson  in  the  matter?" 

"Wliy  should  lie  be  closeted  with  Sherwood  Eighmie 
for  hours  at  a  time  ?" 

"  What  had  he  in  common  Avith  the  slave-hunter  ?" 

"Why  did  the  prosecution  of  these  notorious  offend- 
ers lag?" 

"Why  had  the  prosecuting  attorney  been  more  than 
once  in  private  consultation  with  Clarkson  and  Eighmie  ?" 

"What  were  the  documents  drawn  up  between  Clark- 
son and  Eighmie,  witnessed  by  the  State's  Attorney, 
and  acknowledged  before  a  notary  ?" 

"Had  Jared  Clarkson  bought  up  the  unholy  claim  of 
another  slave-owner  to  his  chattel  ?" 

"  Was  the  peace  of  individuals  to  be  purchased  at  a 
sacrifice  of  public  justice  ?" 

"Did  a  crack-brained  philanthropist  propose  to  cure 
the  evils  of  slavery  by  constantly  interfering  to  protect 
its  emissaries  from  the  penalty  of  violated  laAV  ?" 

"Why  did  not  the  Doctor  tell  what  he  knew  ?" 

"Was  Miss  Huuniwell  a  party  to  the  conspiracy  to 
defeat  the  ends  of  justice  ?" 

"  Why  was  Gilbert  Anderson  so  strangely  silent,  and 
how  did  he  chance  to  be  driving  on  the  unused  road  in 
the  rear  of  the  seminary  that  night  ?" 

These  and  very  many  other  questions  were  asked  by 
press  and  people,  far  and  near,  and  a  myriad  of  guesses 
were  hazarded  by  the  gossips  in  reply  to  each ;  yet  none 
the  less  did  the  public  feel  itself  aggrieved,  and  all  the 
more  busily  did  it  seek  to  penetrate  the  mystery  that 
hung  about  the  strange  events. 

Jared  Clarkson  had  made  up  his  mind  as  to  the  duty 
that  lay  before  him  even  before  his  arrival.  Painful 
to  any  one,  it  was  especially  repulsive  to  him.  He 
knew  that  in  a  free  government  there  were  but  two 
remedies  for  bad  laws — their  strict  enforcement  or  ab- 


560  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

solute  defiance.  He  hated  all  that  smacked  of  slavei-y, 
or  rather  he  abhorred  it  with  a  vehemence  that  made 
simple  hatred  pale.  Wrath  and  disgust  swept  through 
his  heart  like  a  whirlwind  whenever  he  thought  of 
this  Minotaur,  for  whom  a  lab3'rinth  had  been  builded 
in  the  fairest  portion  of  our  land.  He  hated  the  Avor- 
sliip  of  this  beast  of  blood  only  less  than  he  pitied 
the  victims.  He  knew  that  he  would  be  blamed  for 
Avhat  he  proposed  to  do,  but  he  had  never  shrunk 
from  duty  because  of  public  clamor.  The  reprehen- 
sion of  friends  and  foes  had  been  alike  insufficient  to 
deter  him  from  the  path  his  conscience  had  marked 
out.  But  even  if  he  had  been  the  veriest  coward 
that  ever  shrank  from  disapproval,  he  could  not  then 
have  hesitated.  Had  hot  Merwyn  Hargrove  commit- 
ted to  his  charge  the  trust  in  which  he  himself  had 
been  faithful  unto  death  ?  He  could  not  shrink  while 
the  picture  Jason  had  painted  of  that  last  moment  was 
yet  fresh  in  his  memory.  His  exemplar  Avas  sleeping 
under  the  shadow  of  the  water-oak  by  the  Mallowbank 
landing  in  an  unmarked  grave.  He  was  calling  to  his 
representative  to  do  even  as  he  would  have  done  under 
like  circumstances.  What  would  he  have  done '?  That 
Jared  Clarkson  determined  to  do,  whatever  the  risk  of 
blame  !  What  would  he  do — Merwyn  Hargrove — Avere 
he  then  and  there  present  i*  It  needed  not  much  study 
to  decide.  So  thought  the  sorroAvful  heritor  of  his 
Avretched  secret. 

The  public  rumor  Avas  not  Avithout  foundation.  Sher- 
Avood  Eighmie  and  his  counsel  had  conferred  Avith  Jared 
Clarkson  and  the  State's  Attorney.  There  had  been 
much  skillful  fencing,  and  the  diplomacy  of  the  profes- 
sion had  been  exhausted  upon  each  side,  in  the  attempt 
to  learn  Avhat  hand  the  other  held  Avithout  disclosing 
their  own.     This  Avas  continued  for  a  long  time  in  A-ain. 


THAT  NOTHING  BE  LOST.  56l 

At  length  subtei'fuge  was  apparentl}^  thrown  aside,  and 

Eighmie's  counsel  made  specific  answer  to  Clarkson's 

oft-repeated  question : 

"What  reason  have  you  for  believing  that  Hilda  Har- 
grove was  the  daughter  of  your  intestate  ?" 
The  answer  was  : 

1 — There  was  no  evidence  of  the  birth  of  a  daughter  to  Cap- 
tain Hargrove  and  his  wife.  Kingston  had  been  ran- 
sacked for  evidence  of  the  birth  and  christening  in  vain. 

2 — The  introduction  of  Hilda  to  the  household  at  Sturm- 
hold  was  exactly  contemporaneous  with  the  disap- 
peai'ance  of  Heloise  Eighmie. 

3 — Lida  had  always  claimed  her  as  her  own  child. 

4 — The  former  servants,  except  Jason,  were  discharged, 
and  he  was  a  party  to  the  substitution. 

5 — Hargrove  well  knew  of  Lida's  claim  upon  the  child, 
and  never  denied  it. 

6 — In  a  letter  written  by  himself  to  Jared  Clarkson, 
which  was  found  upon  his  person  after  death.  Captain 
Hargrove  had  stated  the  fact  that  he  desired  his 
executors  to  expend  all  that  might  be  derived  from  the 
estate  of  George  Eighmie,  or  so  much  thereof  as  might 
be  required,  in  discovering  and  freeing  Hugh  Eigh- 
mie, and  that  the  balance  of  said  estate,  together  with 
a  sum  equal  to  what  had  been  expended  in  rearing 
the  daughter  of  George  and  Alida,  in  all  respects  as 
if  she  had  been  his  own  child,  including  her  expenses 
at  Beechwood  Seminary,  "where  she  now  is,"  should 
be  paid  to  the  said  Hugh  Eighmie  in  some  manner 
so  as  to  conceal  from  him  all  knowledge  of  the  source 
from  whence  it  came.  "As  to  the  daughter,"  the 
writer  remarked,  "she  is  already  amply  provided  for 
by  the  operation  of  my  will." 

7 — The  will  thus  distinctly  alluded  to  contained  no  name 
or  reference  to  any  one  except  the  executors  ap- 
pointed thereby  and  "Hilda  Hargrove,  a  daughter, 
who  has  never  failed  in  duty  or  affection,  to  whom  I 


SeS  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

leave  my  whole  estate,  well  knowing  that  she  will 
honor  my  name  and  memory  by  wise  use  thereof." 

And  now  said  Eighmie's  counsel,  not  without  evident 
&,pprehension : 

"  What  do  you  rely  upon  to  rebut  this  chain  of  cir- 
cumstances ?" 

Jared  Clarkson  responded  with  equal  frankness  : 

"  The  presumption  of  legitimacy,  and  the  open,  con- 
stant and  unmistakable  acknowledgment  of  the  father." 

"And  nothing  more?"  asked  the  counsel,  with  ill- 
concealed  anxiety. 

"That  is  enough,"  responded  Clarkson  evasively. 

Neither  party  underestimated  the  strength  of  the 
other.  Eighmie  was  fettered  by  the  fact  of  crime  com- 
mitted. Clarkson  was'  weighed  down  by  fear  of  the 
truth.     Neither  party  dared  defy  the  other. 


CHAPTEK  XLIV. 

FACING   THE   ORDEAL. 

When  Hilda  reached  her  room  it  seemed  as  if  the 
world  had  taken  on  a  new  aspect.  Every  nerve  tingled 
with  indignation.  Fear  had  been  swallowed  up  in 
anger.  There  was  a  tinge  of  shame,  too,  in  her  thought 
as  she  remembered  how  she  had  fled  at  the  first  hint  of 
danger.  She  wondered  what  her  father  would  have 
said  had  he  witnessed  her  flight.  Then  the  memory  of 
her  dream  came  back  and  she  saw  him  again  with  the 
light  of  the  moon  upon  his  face  as  he  held  the  sloop  upon 
her  course  and  went  calmly  on  to  meet  his  cruel  fate. 
As  the  shadows  gathered  above  the  city  and  she  heard 
the  bells  ring  out  the  invitation  to  evening  worship  she 
seemed  also  to  see  the  face  of  that  strange  Mr.  Brown, 
which  was  so  fixed  in  her  memory  that  she  could 
never  forget  it.  Very  sad  and  very  stern  it  seemed,  as 
if  it  looked  in  pitying  scorn  upon  her  weakness.  Then 
she  thought  of  all  who  were  behind  her  in  the  struggle 
— true-hearted  Harrison  Kortright  and  his  wife ;  Martin, 
whom  she  could  ever  command,  though  she  must  never 
love  him  any  more  ;  Jared  Clarkson,  whom  even  her 
father  trusted ;  Gilbert  Anderson,  who  would  even  have 
taken  life  in  her  defense  ;  the  prudent  and  devoted 
teacher  ;  and  Jason,  who  had  come,  no  doubt,  to  warn 
her  of  her  danger.  Oh  !  she  had  a  host  of  friends,  and 
it  was  weak  and  silly  of  her  to  flee  from  them.  The 
tears  flowed  fast  as  she  thought  of  them,  and  she  won- 
dered that  she  could  ever  have  been  so  distrustful.  The 
world,  which  in  the  morning  had  seemed  so  barren  of 
all  friendship  or  truth,  now  seemed  overflowing  with 
sympathy  and  devotion. 

563 


564  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

Then  the  thought  of  her  duty  came.  Duty  to  whom? 
First  of  all,  to  her  father  and  his  memory.  She  had 
pledged  herself,  even  in  the  first  gush  of  her  agony,  to  do 
honor  to  his  name.  How  should  she  do  it  ?  By  dis- 
playing the  same  spirit.  None  should  ever  say  her  acts 
belied  her  parentage.  She  paced  back  and  forth  across 
her  room  in  the  deepening  gloom,  her  hands  clasped 
tightl}'  and  her  veins  throbbing  with  defiant  exulta- 
tion. The  future  seemed  to  open  before  her  a  vista  of 
light  as  she  thought.  If  indeed  it  should — a  shiver  of 
dread  passed  through  her  frame  at  the  thought — if  it 
should  be  that  she  were  not  his  daughter — if  she  were, 
in  fact,  the  daughter  of  George  Eighmie  and  of  the  poor 
weak  creature  who  aimlessly  wandered  about  the  cor- 
ridors of  Sturmhold — wliy  then,  indeed,  a  still  grander 
duty  lay  before  her.  In  that  case  she  owed  even  more 
to  that  man  who  had  given  her  his  name,  his  filial 
love — aye,  even  his  life.  Then,  too,  she  would  owe  a 
broader  duty  to  that  people  whose  misfortune  had  put 
its  taint  upon  her  life  —  whose  primeval  curse  had 
blighted  her  love.  The  sacrificial  spirit  took  hold  upon 
her.  Perhaps,  she  thought,  it  might  be  her  destiny  to 
become  one  of  the  great  examples  which  should  help  to 
alleviate  the  thralldom  of  a  race  and  lift  a  shadow  from 
a  nation's  life.  Whatever  might  be  the  truth  in  regard 
to  herself  her  duty  pointed  still  in  one  direction.  She 
must  return  and  face  her  destiny.  Bond  or  free,  rich  or 
poor,  it  should  not  be  said  that  the  daughter  of  Merwyu 
Hargrove,  or  the  daughter  of  that  friend  for  whom  he 
rendered  up  his  life,  failed  to  do  honor  to  his  memory. 

But  what  was  the  first  thing  to  be  done  ?  How  should 
she  begin  to  act  the  worthy  part  for  Avhich  she  had  been 
cast  ?  She  wished  that  she  might  fly  back  to  her  room 
in  the  seminary.  She  wondered  if  it  were  empty,  or 
had  another  occupant  already.  Then  she  began  to  think 
how  she  mijxht   return   and    reach   it  unperceived.     She 


FACING  THE  ORDEAL.  565 

knew  not  why,  but  somehow  it  seemed  as  if  she  must 
begin  her  new  life  in  the  very  place  where  the  old  one 
ended.  Where  the  old  one  ended  ?  Had  it  ended  ? 
She  smiled  as  she  thought  how  she  had  buried  the 
Hilda  of  two  days  before.  Even  Martin — dearly  re- 
membered as  he  must  ever  be — she  had  given  him  up. 
She  had  no  hope  that  the  doubt  would  ever  be  cleared 
away.  In  fact,  she  half  expected  that  it  would  be 
confirmed.  She  could  hardly  help  believing  that  her 
life  had  been  grafted  upon  that  little  life  which  had 
exhaled  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  begun.  She  had  vague 
memories  of  a  tropical  home — was  it  memory,  or  was 
it  the  weird  necromancy  of  that  loved  story-teller  who 
had  painted  for  her  so  many  pictures  of  the  lands  his 
eyes  had  seen  ?  She  could  not  tell.  She  only  knew 
that  the  sweet,  unruffled  life  she  had  led  had  given  way 
to  one  full  of  woe  and  suffering  perhaps,  but  one  that 
she  did  not  shrink  from  facing.  The  ordeal  was  pre- 
pared. The  smoking  plowshares  lay  along  her  path. 
The  judges  were  in  waiting.  Yes,  her  old  life  was 
ended — cut  sharply  in  twain,  but  she  longed  to  graft 
a  new  one  upon  it.  She  would  join  and  unite  them  so 
that  the  point  of  severance  should  hardly  be  perceptible 
to  other  eyes.  The  luxury,  the  ease,  the  freedom  she 
had  enjoyed,  what  were  they  but  a  preparation  for  the 
duty  that  lay  before?  She  must  go  back  to  her  old 
haunts  and  begin  anew. 

But  how  ?  Again  and  again  the  question  recurred. 
She  wished  she  had  the  gray-bearded  man  she  had 
met  at  dinner  to  advise  her.  Then  she  remembered 
having  heard  her  father  say  that  advice  was  a  good 
thing  M'hen  one  already  knew  what  he  meant  to  do. 
She  thought  what  he  would  do  were  he  in  her  place — 
the  dear  wise  father,  who  had  always  left  her  to 
decide  for  herself  Surely  he  had  not  done  this  with- 
out  a   purpose.      He  meant    that    she  should  decide, 


566  EOT  PLOWSHARES. 

and  not  only  decide,  but  act  on  her  own  judgment 
in  the  future,  as  he  had  encouraged  her  to  do  in  the 
past.  Ah,  it  was  cruel !  The  lady  at  the  table  had  only 
half  stated  the  rapacity  of  her  pursuers.  Xot  only  had 
they  not  waited  for  her  to  take  off  her  mourning,  but 
they  had  not  even  allowed  her  time  to  put  it  on.  The 
tears  flowed  at  the  memory  of  her  affliction.  She  re- 
proached herself  that  even  the  sorest  trouble  had  caused 
her  to  neglect  to  testifj^  her  grief  to  the  whole  world. 
Henceforth  her  garb  should  bear  witness  to  her  sorrow. 
She  would  wear  only  weeds  all  her  life  long.  Sackcloth 
should  enswathe  her  form  even  as  woe  must  overshadow 
her  life. 

All  at  once  she  forgot  her  despondency.  She  was 
young,  and  her  buoyant  nature  laughed  at  trammels. 
Her  tears  were  none  the  less  bitter  because  they  were 
so  easily  wiped  away.  She  sprang  to  her  feet,  laughing, 
softly  and  quietly.  Then  she  made  haste  to  light  the  gas  ; 
searched  in  her  bag  and  brought  out  some  black  stufl'; 
combed  her  hair  smoother  still  upon  her  brow  ;  plaited 
the  dark  stuff  along  her  cheek,  which  had  grown  pale 
with  the  woe  of  the  last  two  days ;  smiled  contentedly, 
and  then  sat  down  at  the  table  to  examine  the  contents 
of  her  purse.  She  found  that  they  were  ample  for 
all  her  present  needs.  Miss  Hunniwe'd,  more  prudent 
than  herself,  had  foreseen  her  need,  and  had  transformed 
the  larger  portion  of  the  deposit  her  father  had  made 
in  her  behalf  into  ready  money,  in  anticipation  of  the 
need  of  a  prolonged  concealment.  It  was  strange 
what  a  change  had  come  over  her.  Calmly,  even 
smilingly,  she  prepared  for  her  couch.  She  slumbered 
peacefully,  and  on  the  morrow  was  astir  early  among 
the  city  shops,  cheapening,  buying  and  directing,  as  if 
danger  and  sorrow  were  unknown  to  her.  Neverthe- 
less, her  cheeks  were  strangely  pale,  and  her  demeanor 
quiet  and  subdued, 


FACING  THE  ORDEAL.  567 

A  few  days  afterward  a  lady  in  widow's  weeds 
got  off  the  train  at  Burlingdale.  She  was  fair  and 
young — that  much  might  be  seen  through  her  heavy 
veil.  She  asked  to  be  driven  to  the  seminary,  and 
handed  the  hackman  her  check,  for  which  he  received 
a  trunk  unusually  large  and  new,  on  which  a  name 
was  stamped  in  large  letters.  Many  read,  but  none 
seemed  to  recognize  it.  There  was  an  unusual  crowd 
at  the  station,  but  no  one  paid  any  attention  to  the 
new  arrival.  The  people  were  so  excited  over  the  affair 
at  Beechwood  that  they  had  no  time  to  notice  any 
one  not  specially  connected  with  it.  The  lady  was 
alone  in  the  hack,  and  on  the  way  to  the  seminary 
the  driver  told  her  all  about  the  matter — all  that  Avas 
known,  at  least,  as  well  as  some  guesses  of  his  own 
at  the  unknown.  The  stranger  seemed  much  shocked, 
and  at  one  time  appeared  almost  inclined  to  retract 
her  order  and  go  to  the  hotel.  The  driver,  in  his  rough 
way,  was  very  sorry  for  his  fare  —  she  was  so  young 
and  tender,  and  yet  wearing  widow's  weeds.  She  seemed 
entirely  broken  down  with  sorrow,  and  never  raised 
her  veil  nor  spoke  above  a  subdued  monotone  during 
the  trip.  He  made  some  cautious  inquiries  regard- 
ing her  affliction,  but  a  quick  sob  and  the  sudden 
thrusting  of  a  white  handkerchief  under  the  gold-bowed 
glasses  which  she  wore  told  the  good-natured  fellow 
that  his  inquisitiveness  was  very  painful.  So  he  de- 
sisted, and  gave  his  attention  to  his  team.  Arrived  at 
the  seminary,  she  sent  her  card  to  the  principal,  and 
waited  in  the  reception-room  until  she  came.  Many 
of  the  pupils,  who  were  busy  with  preparations  for 
departure,  glanced  in  at  the  door  half  curiously.  She 
did  not  look  at  them,  nor  once  lift  her  veil.  Miss  Hun- 
niwell  came  with  a  look  of  mild  surprise  upon  her 
face  and  the  card  of  the  new-comer  in  her  hand.  As 
soon  as  she  had  entered  the  room  the  strange  lady  rose 


568  HO T  FLO W SHARES. 

and  closed  the  door.  Then  turning  to  the  teacher,  she 
raised  her  veil.  The  teacher  regarded  her  with  a  puz- 
zled look,  as  if  seeking  to  bring  back  to  her  memory 
some  half-forgotten  face.  Then  she  shook  her  head 
almost  imperceptibly. 

"Don't  you  know  me  ?"  asked  the  stranger. 

The  teacher  started,  came  closer,  and  peered  anx- 
iously into  the  pale  face  framed  in  the  dull  black  of 
the  widow's  weeds.  The  stranger  took  off  her  glasses. 
Miss  Hunniwell  started,  and  would  have  screamed,  but 
a  plump  white  hand  was  clasped  firmly  over  her  mouth. 
Then  there  were  tears  and  embraces  and  anxious  in- 
quiries, as  Avhen  friends  long  parted  meet  again.  The 
door  was  opened  after  a  time,  and  Miss  Hunniwell  and 
her  guest  passed  along  the  hall  together.  The  stranger's 
veil  was  down,  but  the  teacher's  agitation  was  clearly 
perceptible.  She  took  the  stranger  to  her  own  room, 
where  she  soon  left  her  to  attend  to  her  own  duties.  It 
was  a  matter  of  great  surprise  when  she  directed  the 
lady's  trunk  to  be  taken  to  Hilda's  room ;  but  she  ex- 
plained that  it  was  an  old  pupil  who  once  occupied  that 
room,  and  had  now  come  back  to  seek  seclusion  in  her 
deep  affliction.  She  had  explained  to  her,  she  said,  the 
unfortunate  associations  of  the  room,  but  she  did  not 
seem  to  mind  them  at  all.  No  other  room  would  seem  at 
all  homelike  to  her,  and  she  especially  desired  that  she 
might  be  allowed  to  have  that.  So  the  strange  widoAv  lady 
was  soon  duly  installed  in  the  room  Hilda  had  chosen 
when  she  came,  hardly  more  than  a  child,  to  select  the 
place  in  which  she  would  pass  the  years  of  her  school-life. 

After  a  time  the  teacher  brought  Jason  to  the  room. 
The  lady  had  put  aside  her  widow's  veil  and  removed 
the  glasses  she  had  worn.  Her  hair  was  brushed 
smoothly  down  upon  her  forehead,  and  only  a  faint  line 
of  white  about  the  throat  relieved  the  sombre  depths 
of  the   mourning  which  she  wore,      She  advanced  and 


FACING  THE  ORDEAL.  569 

offered  her  hand  to  Jason.  Her  lip  quivered  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  did  so. 

The  faithfid  servant  gazed  at  her  a  moment  in  aston- 
ishment. Then  he  suddenly  seized  her  by  the  arms, 
peered  keenly  into  her  face,  and  exclaimed  : 

"If  it  ain't  Miss  Hilda  !  Bless  God,  our  Httle  Miss 
Hilda !" 

Before  she  could  prevent,  he  had  seized  her  in  his 
arms,  and  was  carrying  her  about  the  room,  as  if  she 
had  been  a  child,  tears  rolling  down  his  face,  and  his 
lips  uttering  half-incoherent  bursts  of  gratitude. 

"There,  there,  Jason,"  said  she,  gently  releasing  her- 
self at  length.  "I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  again,  but 
you  must  not  try  to  toss  me  about  in  that  fashion.  I  am 
not  as  light  as  I  once  was." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  as  she  spoke,  which,  with  the 
characteristic  freedom  of  the  old  servant  of  the  plan- 
tation, he  kissed  and  fondled,  while  his  eyes  seemed  to 
devour  her  features. 

"Ah,  Miss  Hilda,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  thought  I 
wouldn't  never  git  a  sight  of  you  no  more.  You  jes'  run 
off,  nobody  knows  how  nor  whar,  an'  leave  Jason  here 
without  a  Avord — jes'  bound  to  wait  till  you  comes  back 
in  your  own  way,  whenever  you  gits  ready,  for  all  the 
world  like  your  pa.  I  declai'e,  child,  you  're  his  own  gal, 
sure.  Here 's  Marse  Eighmie  comes  a-tearin'  round 
atter  ye,  an'  all  at  once,  jes'  when  he  thinks  he  's  got 
yer  safe,  whar  is  yer  ?  Then,  atter  a  little,  Avhen  every- 
body thinks  yers  done  gone  an'  hid,  jes'  as  ef  yer  'd  been 
a  sure  enuff  nigger,  as  all  on  'em  tries  ter  make  out, 
why,  here  you  is  !" 

Despite  the  fact  of  Hilda's  evident  sorrow,  and  that 
he  had  not  seen  her  since  her  father's  tragic  death,  he 
could  not  repress  his  joy.  But  his  mood  changed  in- 
stantly, as  he  saw  her  lip  tremulous  with  grief  at  this 
allusion. 


570  HOT  PL  0  WSHAllES. 

"There,  there,  honey,"  he  said  soothingly;  "don't 
you  go  to  feehng  bad  now.  You  know  there  ain't 
nothin'  that  would  make  Marse  Merwyn  gladder  'n  jes' 
ter  know  what  his  little  gal 's  done — come  right  back 
here  into  the  jaws  of  the  lion  that 's  a-huntin'  atter  her, 
as  you  has,  chile.  Bless  yer  dear  heart,  you  's  yer  pa  all 
over  again,  that  yer  is,  an'  Jason  knows  it.  That  was 
always  the  way  with  him,  you  know — here  one  minute 
an'  there  the  next,  axin'  nobody's  advice,  an'  tellin'  no- 
body what  he  was  gwine  ter  do  till  it  was  all  over  an' 
done.  There,  there,  dear,  don't  take  on  so — please  don't, 
honey,"  said  Jason,  as  she  snatched  away  her  hand, 
and,  sinking  on  a  chair,  sobbed  aloud  with  a  sorrow  she 
had  before  had  no  opportunity  to  indulge. 

After  a  time  she  checked  her  grief,  and  said  with  a 
choking  voice : 

"Have  you  no  message  for  me,  Jason,  from — from 
my  father?" 

"There,  now,  what  an  old  stupid  he  is!"  exclaimed 
Jason  reproachfully.  "  Here  I  've  been  a  gwine  on  about 
nuffin',  an'  this  dear  chile  jes'  a  hungerin'  for  dem  las' 
words  her  pa  sent  her.  'Clar  it  does  seem  as  if  Jason 
was  gittin'  to  be  a  straight-out  fool  an'  no  mistake." 

The  faithful  servitor  had  opened  his  vest  as  he  spoke, 
and  from  an  inside  pocket  now  drew  forth  a  letter 
which  he  handed  to  Hilda  with  an  air  of  reverence  that 
could  not  have  been  greater  had  she  been  a  queen  and 
he  an  humble  liegeman  kneeling  at  her  feet. 

"There,  Miss  Hilda,  that's  what  I  ought  to  have 
given  you  before,  only  I  Avas  that  glad  I  done  forgot  all 
about  it.  Marse  Cap'n  give  me  that  jes'  the  las' 
minute  'fore  he  made  me  come  away.  Do  Lo'd  knows, 
Miss  Hilda,  I  didn't  want  to  do  it  nohow,  an'  I  wouldn't 
if  he  hadn't  jes'  forced  me  to.  There  warn't  no  sort  of 
use  on  't — none  in  the  world.  If  he  'd  jes'  have  let  me 
take  a  crack  or  two  at  that  crowd  in  dead  earnest  in- 


FACING  THE  ORDEAL.  571 

stead  of  firin'  all  round  'em  as  we  'd  been  a  doin'', 
there  'd  a  been  plenty  of  time  to  have  got  him  aboard 
an'  off  before  they  'd  have  rallied  up  to  stop  us.  But 
he  wouldn't  do  it,  Miss  Hilda — he  p'intedly  wouldn't — 
but  jes'  give  me  this  letter  an'  told  me  not  to  let  no 
man  or  woman  catch  so  much  as  a  glimpse  of  the  least- 
est  corner  of  it  till  I  put  it  in  your  hands,  Miss  Hilda. 
And  I  hain't.  Now,  i'^^p^o,  'tis,  an'  Jason's  filled  his 
last  orders.  There  ain't  nothin'  more  for  him  to  do 
now — nothin'  more." 

"Thank  you,  Jason,"  said  Hilda,  as  she  took  the  let- 
ter and  glanced  at  the  superscription.  "You  are  a 
good,  faithful  fellow,"  she  added,  as  the  tears  streamed 
down  her  cheeks.  She  pressed  the  letter  passionately  to 
her  bosom,  as  if  to  still  with  its  touch  the  beating  of 
her  heart.  She  reached  out  her  other  hand  and  patted 
the  cheek  of  the  faithful  servant.  He  caught  it  and 
covered  it  with  kisses. 

"You  must  not  say  there  is  nothing  more  for  you  to 
do,  Jason.  Papa  sent  you  away,  no  doubt,  that  you 
might  take  care  of  me.  He  knew  I  would  need  you 
when  he  was  gone." 

"I'll  do  it.  Miss  Hilda — anything  you  want  in  the 
wide  world  I  '11  do.  If  you  '11  jes'  let  Jason  serve  you 
like  he  did  Marse  Captain,  that 's  all  he  wants." 

"  You  shall  always  do  that,  Jason." 

"Thank  ye.  Miss  Hilda,  thank  ye;  but  you  must 
promise  not  to  run  ofl'  an'  leave  me  no  more,"  said  he, 
half  doubtfully. 

"Oh,  never  fear!"  said  Hilda,  as  she  turned  to  the 
window  and  l)roke  the  seal  of  her  father's  letter.  Hardly 
had  she  glanced  at  its  contents  when  an  expression  of 
surprise  escaped  her  lips.  She  read  a  little  farther,  and 
a  cry  of  pleasure  came  bubbling  from  her  heart.  An 
instant  after  she  rushed  across  the  room,  with  the 
crumpled  letter  close  clasped  to  her  bosom,  fell  upon 


573  HO  T  PL  0  W81IABES. 

her  knees  beside  the  bed,  and  cried,  as  the  tears  rolled 
down  her  cheeks  : 

"  Thank  God  !  thank  God  !  Poor  Papa !  Dear  Papa ! 
Thank  God  !    Thank  God  !" 

The  teacher  stole  away  and  left  the  faithful  servant 
alone  with  his  young  mistress,  to  tell  the  story  of  the 
father's  tragic  death. 

Martin  Kortright  returned  to  Sturmhold  burning  with 
zeal  in  his  lady-love's  behalf.  To  his  parents  he  told 
over  and  over  again  the  story  of  what  had  occurred 
at  Beechwood.  He  laid  before  them  all  the  plans  his 
ardent  brain  had  devised  for  discovering  whither  she 
had  flown.  Already  Jie  had  secured  the  co-operation 
of  detectives,  and  he  proposed  before  a  week  had  passed 
to  put  her  likeness  and  a  full  description  in  the  hands 
of  the  police  of  every  city  in  the  country.  To  all  this 
Harrison  Kortright  imperatively  objected. 

"If  she  were  a  runaway  servant  or  a  lost  child,  that 
would  do.  But  you  must  remember,  my  son,  that  it 
is  Hilda  Hargrove  of  whom  we  are  speaking.  Just  read 
that  letter  of  hers  once  more,  and  you  will  see  that  the 
girl  who  wrote  it  doesn't  need  to  be  hawked  around  the 
country  like  a  lost  poodle.  She  means  to  do  something, 
and  wants  to  be  left  alone  to  do  it  in  her  own  way. 
Heaven  knows  she  has  people  enough  hunting  after  her 
already,  and  you  would  only  add  to  her  troubles  if  you 
began  a  pursuit.  Let  her  alone,  my  son.  Let  her  have 
time  to  get  over  her  grief  and  terror,  and  detei*mine  on 
the  course  she  will  pursue.  She  has  sufficient  for  her 
present  needs,  and  knows  very  well  that  she  has  only 
to  indicate  a  want  in  order  to  have  it  gratified." 

"  But  she  will  think  I  have  no  spirit  if  I  sit  down  and 
wait  for  her  to  clear  up  this  mystery  all  alone,"  said 
Martin.  "  If  I  could  only  let  her  know  what  Jason  is 
able  to  prove,  she  would  come  back  at  once." 


FACING  THE  ORDEAL.  573 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  rejoined  his  father.  "  She 
is  not  running  away  from  the  slave-catclier  so  much  as 
from  the  fear  that  she  may  be  something  worse  than  a 
slave  herself." 

"Jason's  testimony  settles  that  also,"  interrupted 
Martin. 

"I  am  afraid  Jason's  story  is  hardly  conclusive," 
said  the  father.  "Jared  Clarkson  knows  that  I  don't 
put  a  particle  of  confidence  in  the  inference  he  draws 
from  the  papers  in  his  possession.  I  am  sure  that 
Hilda  is  Merwyn  Hargrove's  child.  Not  only  did  he 
acknowledge  her  as  such,  but  she  resembles  him  as  closely 
as  one  person  can  another.  She  has  all  his  coolness  and 
courage,  as  well  as  his  quiet  candor  and  undoubting  self- 
reliance.  Even  he  could  detect  nothing  of  her  mother 
about  her  except  in  appearance.  Now,  if  Clarkson  put 
the  same  reliance  in  Jason's  story  that  you  do,  he  would 
have  telegraphed  at  once  to  relieVe  my  anxiety.  I  heard 
from  him  twice  yesterday,  but  nothing  to  indicate  that 
he  has  changed  his  impressions  in  the  least." 

"But  Hilda  ought  to  know  what  Jason  says,  and 
have  the  letter  he  refuses  to  give  to  any  one  else  as  well 
as  the  package  Clarkson  has  for  her." 

"That  is  true,"  said  the  old  man,  "but  you  are  not 
the  one  to  take  it  to  her.  If  she  knew  you  were  on  her 
track,  can  you  not  see  that  she  would  just  rush  deeper 
and  deeper  into  obscurity  ?  It  is  you  and  your  love  that 
she  dreads  more  than  all  the  slave-hunters  in  the  world. 
If  you  should  pursue  her  before  this  doubt  is  settled,  she 
would  not  hesitate  to  destroy  herself  in  order  to  escape 
from  you," 

I' My  God  !"  exclaimed  Martin,  "what  shall  I  do  ?" 
"Do?"  said  his  father  reproachfully.     "You  are  the 
last  one  to  ask  that  question.     If  ever  a  woman  had  a 
right  to  demand  obedience  from  her  lover,  that  woman 
is  Hilda  Hargrove  at  this  time." 


574  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

"She  doesn't  expect  me  to  obey  and  leave  her  to  suf- 
fer, does  she  ?"  asked  Martin  impetuously. 

"She  expects,  and  she  has  a  right  to  expect,  that  you 
will  obey  her  wishes  when  they  are  fair  and  reasonable 
ones." 

"But  hers  are  not  reasonable,"  said  the  son,  with 
some  show  of  irritation. 

"  Let  us  see,"  said  the  father.  "  She  tells  you  frankly 
that  she  would  die  before  she  would  marry  with  a  doubt 
upon  her  birth.  You,  in  your  impetuous  love,  might  at 
first  think  otherwise,  but  there  could  be  no  surer  way  of 
securing  the  unhappiness  of  both  than  by  overcoming, 
if  you  could,  this  objection.  You  are  as  sure  of  her  love 
as  if  you  looked  into  her  heart,  but  you  know  also  that 
you  can  never  change  Irer  determination." 

"  But  I  cannot  wait  in  idleness  while  she  is  in  trouble 
— perhaps  in  peril,"  protested  the  young  man,  as  he 
strode  back  and  forth  across  the  room  with  clinched 
hands  and  a  brow  knotted  with  agony. 

"Wait  you  must,  my  son,  because  she  bids  you.  If 
there  were  no  other  reason  at  this  time,  you  are  bound 
to  regard  implicitly  her  lightest  wish.  But  you  do  not 
need  to  be  idle.  Your  waiting  and  separation  may 
continue  for  many  a  year,  but  whenever  the  cloud 
is  lifted,  as  it  will  be  some  time,  you  may  be  sure 
she  will  keep  her  word.  You  should  remember  that 
she  may  need  a  good  deal  of  money  to  carry  out  her 
plans,  and  we  must  be  ready  to  meet  her  requirements. 
We  are  her  trustees — you  and  I.  You  must  continue 
to  do  the  work  I  am  no  longer  able  to  perform." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  do  about  the  estate.  It  is  aU 
in  good  condition,  and  almost  taking  care  of  itself" 

"  You  speak  of  her  father's  estate,  my  son.  It  is  time' 
you  learned  that  Hilda  has  even  a  closer  relation  to  us. 
One  half  of  all  that  stands  to-day  in  my  name  belongs 
to  her." 


FACING  TEE  ORDEAL.  575 

Harrison  Kortright  then  explained  the  facts  which 
the  reader  ah-eady  knows. 

"Does  Hilda  know  this  ?"  asked  Martin,  drawing  a 
long  breath,  when  his  father  had  concluded. 

"I  do  not  know,"  was  the  reply,  "but  I  take  it  for 
granted  that  she  does.  You  know  her  father  always 
had  great  confidence  in  her.  I  doubt  if  he  kept  any- 
thing from  her  except  that  miserable  matter  of  his 
brother's  children." 

"You  think,  then,  that  she  wishes  me  to  stay 
here  and  look  after  her  interests  as  you  have  done 
hitherto  ?" 

"  It  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  she  would  desire  to 
have  her  matters  in  such  shape  as  to  yield  whatever 
funds  she  may  require,  is  it  not  ?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  answered  Martin  moodily;  "but 
how  shall  I  know  her  wants,  or  she  know  that  I  am 
obeying  her  request  ?" 

"  I  suppose  she  will  expect  that  without  any  informa- 
tion, but  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not  communi- 
cate with  her,"  said  the  father. 

"  How  ?"  asked  Martin,  stopping  short  in  his  walk. 

"By  advertisement,"  replied  his  father.  "You  may 
be  sure  that  Hilda  will  see  it.  She  will  not  miss  a  line 
that  concerns  any  one  connected  with  this  matter." 

So  the  father  and  son  devised  some  brief  personals 
which  Hilda  only  would  understand,  and  know  that 
they  were  messages  from  home. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

A   MASKED  BATTERY. 

Hilda's  first  thought  after  having  secured  unsus- 
pected refuge  in  her  old  quarters  was  to  find  out  exactly 
what  had  been  done,  in  order  that  she  might  determine 
what  she  ought  to  do.  She  no  longer  felt  any  a,ppre- 
hension  on  her  own  account.  Her  father's  letter  had 
entirely  relieved  her  mind  as  to  that,  hut  it  also  de- 
volved upon  her  the  continuance  of  that  task  which  had 
cost  him  his  life.  The  son  and  daughter  of  George  and 
Alida  Eighmie  were  not  onlj^  commended  to  her  care, 
but  she  was  especially  charged  to  discover,  if  possible, 
the  former,  and  to  see  to  it  that  the  latter  remained  in 
utter  ignorance  of  her  birth  and  origin,  unless  circum- 
stances made  such  a  disclosure  imperatively  necessary. 
On  the  next  day,  therefore,  Mr.  Clarkson  came  to  the 
seminary  at  the  request  of  Miss  Hunniwell.  After  his 
first  surprise  at  the  presence  of  the  young  lady  whose 
guardianship  had  been  so  unwillingly  thrust  upon  him, 
he  bethought  him  of  the  package  he  was  charged  to  de- 
liver into  her  hands,  and  returned  to  his  hotel  for  it. 
Having  delivered  it  to  Hilda,  he  seemed  at  once  to  be  re- 
lieved of  a  great  burden.  After  she  had  glanced  over  its 
contents,  he  began  to  tell  her  what  he  had  done,  or 
rather  what  he  had  determined  to  do.  Very  fortunately 
for  her,  he  said,  the  enem}'^  had  made  a  false  move.  In- 
stead of  trusting  to  the  law,  the}^  had  gone  outside  of 
it,  and  had  tried  to  assert  their  rights  with  a  strong 
hand.  This  fact  he  proposed  to  utilize  in  effecting  a 
compromise,  by  which  the  collateral  heirs  of  George 
Eighmie  should  release  all  claim  upon  the  children  of 
Alida. 

676 


A  MASKED  BATTERY.  577 

"I  suppose,"  said  Hilda  tlioughtfully,  "that  it  will 
be  best  for  me  to  remain  concealed  while  you  are  en- 
gaged in  this  negotiation  ?" 

"Oh,  of  course,"  exclaimed  Clarkson.  "Your  ab- 
sence was  the  most  fortunate  thing  that  could  have 
occurred. ' ' 

"Have  they  discovered  the  strange  mistake  they 
made  ?"  she  asked. 

"Mistake?" 

"Yes — in  regard  to  the  identity  of  the  daughter  of 
George  Eighmie  ?" 

"I  do  not  understand  your  meaning,"  said  Clarkson, 
with  a  puzzled  look. 

"  I  mean,  do  they  know  who  she  is  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Clarkson  with  some  embarrassment, 
"they  suspect  the  truth,  of  course,  but  they  i-eally 
knoM''  no  more  than  when  they  came." 

"Indeed,"  said  Hilda,  "  that  is  very  fortunate.  Then 
I  should  suppose  the  best  thing  to  do  would  be  to  throw 
them  still  farther  off  the  scent." 

"  Of  course ;  but  how  ?"  asked  Clarkson. 

"I  might  show  myself,"  suggested  Hilda. 

"Show  yourself,  my  dear,"  he  cried,  starting  up  in 
alarm.  "It  Avould  disarrange  everything.  It  would  be 
fatal.  Do  please  remember  that  the  Avarrant  for  your 
arrest  is  still  in  the  marshal's  hands." 

"Well,  suppose  it  is,  what  then  ?"  asked  Hilda  in  sur- 
prise. 

"You  would  be  seized  in  an  instant  if  they  knew 
of  your  presence." 

"What  if  I  were?"  persisted  Hilda.  "They  can 
do  me  no  harm." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Clarkson  thoughtfully,  "but 
what  good  can  result  from  it  ?" 

"  The  legal  proceedings  would  take  some  time,  I  sup- 
pose ?" 


578  BOT  PLOWSHARES. 

"Several  daj'^s,  at  least." 

"  They  might  be  delayed,  protracted  ?" 

"Of  course." 

"How  long?" 

"  For  some  weeks,  probably." 

"  Well,  in  the  meantime — " 

"In  the  meantime,  you  would  be  in  jail." 

"In  jail?" 

"Yes;  that  is,  you  would  be  in  custody,  unless  re- 
leased on  a  writ  of  habeas  corpus.''^ 

"  Well,  it  would  be  all  right  in  the  end." 

"Probably,  but  is  it  not  better  to  relinquish  all  claim 
to  the  estate  of  Eighmie,  and  thereby  put  an  end  to 
their  pursuit  ?  By  that  means,  too,  the  facts  remain 
solely  in  our  possession."* 

"  I  see.  I  must  guard  against  that.  It  was  Papa's  last 
wish  that  I  should  conceal  the  facts,  if  possible,  forever." 

"  If  you  will  allow  me,"  said  Clarkson,  "  I  think  there 
has  been  entirely  too  much  concealment  in  this  matter." 

"  That  may  be,  but  we  must  still  continue  it  for  her 
sake." 

"  For  her  sake  ?    Whom  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Why,  the  one  we  have  been  speaking  of  all  this 
time — George  Eighmie's  daughter." 

"I  was  in  hope,"  said  Clarkson  scornfully,  "that 
when  she  was  once  out  of  danger  she  would  have  the 
moral  courage  to  avow  the  truth." 

"How  can  she,  when  she  does  not  know  it?"  asked 
Hilda  artlessly. 

"  But  she  does  know  it,"  said  Clarkson  impatiently. 
"Miss — Miss  Hilda — I — I  must  say  that  I  am  disap- 
pointed in  you.  I  will  gladly  do  all  in  my  power  to 
rescue  you  from  your  present  peril,  because  of  my  pro- 
mise to  your — to  Captain  Hargrove,  I  mean— but  after 
that  you  must  understand  that  I  will  have  nothing  to 
do  with  any  false  pretenses." 


A  MASKED  BATTERY.  570 

"  But  how  can  I  help  it  ?" 

"  You  Avill  be  your  own  mistress." 

"Well?" 

"  You  will  have  an  ample  fortune." 

"  Well  ?" 

'  Why  not  stand  up  and  defy  this  infamous  race-pre- 
judice ?" 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?" 

"Nothing  now;  but  when  the  danger  is  over,  and 
you  are  in  the  secure  possession  of  what  you  will 
receive,  I  would  have  you  repay  the  debt  of  gratitude 
you  owe  to  Merwj^n  Hargrove,  not  by  keeping  up  the 
miserable  sham  he  urged  upon  you,  but  by  showing  the 
world  his  noble  conduct  in  its  true  significance." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  sir,"  said  Hilda,  shrink- 
ing from  his  vehemence. 

"You  do  not  understand?"  he  said  angrily.  "Say 
you  will  not,  rather.  I  mean  that  you  should  be  brave 
enough  and  strong  enough  to  avow  the  truth — to  say  to 
the  world,  '  This  man  was  so  true  and  noble  that  he 
conquered  every  prejudice  in  order  to  fulfill  his  pledge. 
He  even  took  to  his  heart  one  cursed  with  the  blood  of 
a  despised  race — gave  her  a  daughter's  place  and  a 
daughter's  love.'  In  other  words,  I  would  have  you 
avow  your  own  parentage." 

"  My  parentage  ?"  cried  Hilda  in  amazement. 

"  Yes,  I  would  have  you  reward  the  devotion  of  a 
poor,  crazed  mother,  and  acknowledge  with  pride 
the  heroism  of  that  brother — "  the  speaker  paused, 
looked  hastily  about,  and  then  added  in  a  lower  tone — 
"that  brother  who  has  devoted  his  strength  to  the  ser- 
vice of  the  race  whose  degradation  has  blighted  his 
life." 

Hilda  shrunk  from  him  as  he  spoke  in  undisguised 
dismay.     Then  she  turned  impetuously  upon  him  : 

"Why,  Mr.  Clarkson,"  she  exclaimed,  "what  do  you 


580  HOT  PL  0  W8EARES. 

mean  by  such  language  ?  Do  you  think  my  father  was 
a  Mar  ?  Do  you  think  his  solemn  declaration  to  you 
was  a  falsehood  ?  Do  you  impeach  his  dying  message 
to  me?" 

"  It  is  because  of  his  declaration  that  I  speak  thus  I" 

Hilda  looked  as  if  she  doubted  his  sanity.  Finally 
she  opened  the  packet  in  her  hand,  ran  over  its  contents 
hastily,  and  said  : 

"Mr.  Clarkson,  my  father  tells  me  here  that  he  has 
informed  you  of  all  the  facts  concerning  the  daughter 
of  Alida." 

"So  he  did,  by  means  of  the  parcel  accompanying 
that  which  you  hold." 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  allow  me  to  examine 
that  parcel  ?" 

Clarkson  looked  at  her  half-suspiciously  ;  then  drew 
the  package  from  his  pocket,  and  after  showing  the  super- 
scription, handed  her  the  bills  it  contained.  She  glanced 
at  them  carelessly,  and  extended  her  hand  for  more. 

"That  is  all,"  said  Clarkson. 

"All?  Was  there  nothing  more,  absolutely  nothing?" 

"  Nothing  but  this  wrapper,  which  had  evidently 
been  used  to  inclose  other  papers." 

He  handed  her  a  sheet  of  paper  loosely  folded  to  in- 
close others.  It  was  indorsed  in  her  father's  distinct 
and  positive  hand : 

Indosures. 

1.  Letter  from  A.  E. 

2.  "         "      S.  M. 

3.  "         "     W.  K. 

4.  "         "     M.  H.  to  W.  K. 

5.  Affidavit  of  J.  U. 

6.  Statement  of  acct.  of  W.  K. 

7.  Letters  H.  E.  to  W.  K. 
8  "         M.  H.  to  W.  K. 

9.  Letter  of  instructions  to  W.  K, 
10.      "      Bills  of  M.  H. 


A  MASKED  BATTERY.  581 

"  And  nothing  more  ?"  asked  Hilda,  with  a  perplexed 
look. 

"  ^N'othing  more,"  said  Clarkson  wonderingly. 

Hilda  sat  down  and  rested  her  head  npon  her  hand  in 
thought.  She  turned  the  papers  over  and  over,  as  if 
seeking  to  unravel  some  mystery.  In  the  meantime, 
Clarkson  sat  watching  her  with  a  curious,  pitying  look. 
Once  or  twice  he  half  started,  as  if  he  feared  she  were 
about  to  destroy  the  papers  he  had  given  her.  After  a 
time  she  rose,  crossed  to  where  he  sat,  and  handing  him 
the  package  she  had  received  from  him  which  was  ad- 
dressed to  her,  she  said  quietly  : 

"  Will  you  please  read  that  ?" 

When  he  had  concluded  she  gave  him  the  letter  she 
had  received  by  the  hand  of  Jason. 

"  And  that  also,  if  you  please." 

The  effect  on  Jared  Clarkson  was  astonishing.  In- 
credulity, amazement,  joy,  and  finally  mortification, 
were  depicted  in  turn  upon  his  countenance.  After  a 
time  he  rose,  and  with  a  deep  blush  upon  his  fine,  frank 
face,  extended  his  hand  and  said  : 

"  I  crave  your  pardon.  Miss  Hargrove.  I  am  sorry  to 
have  been  so  poor  a  counsellor." 

Then  Hilda  broke  down  and  wept  passionately.  The 
long  struggle  was  over,  and  nature  would  have  its  way. 
She  had  passed  the  dread  ordeal  and  must  fain  weep 
over  her  deliverance.  Clarkson  stood  by,  absently  pat- 
ting her  head  and  smoothing  the  masses  of  her  hair,  to 
soothe  her  agitation. 

"I  very  greatly  regret  having  caused  you  so  much 
pain,  my  dear,"  he  said  in  a  low,  fatherly  tone. 

She  looked  up  into  his  face  half  smiling  through  her 
tears,  and  said  : 

"It  only  shows  how  true  a  friend  my  father  chose  to 
aid  me  in  the  task  he  left  unfinished," 


582  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

Clarkson  stooped  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

After  this  there  were  some  grave  consultations  in  the 
widow's  room  at  the  seminary.  An  eminent  lawyer  came 
more  than  once  ;  Jason  was  carefully  examined,  and  be- 
fore another  day  had  passed  Sherwood  Eighmie  and  his 
confederates  found  a  legal  network  Avoven  about  them 
which  portended  unexpected  difficulties.  Actions  for 
conspiracy  and  libel  were  brought  against  them  in  the 
name  of  Hilda  Hargrove,  based  upon  affidavits  sworn  to 
by  her,  and  requiring  very  heavy  bonds  on  the  part  of  the 
defendants.  In  the  meantime  the  demeanor  of  Clark- 
son  underwent  a  change  that  no  one  could  account  for. 
Instead  of  depression  and  gloom  his  mirth  was  almost 
hilarious.  There  was  no  longer  any  display  of  anxiety, 
and  the  compromise  which  he  had  set  on  foot  was  en- 
tirely neglected.  The  strange  widow  lady  after  two 
days'  sojourn  found  that  the  associations  of  her  old 
room  were  not  so  soothing  as  she  had  expected.  Be- 
sides that  she  had  received  a  great  many  visits  for  one 
seeking  seclusion,  and  it  was  a  matter  of  little  wonder 
to  the  remaining  pupils  of  the  seminary  that  she  had 
concluded  to  seek  a  more  tranquil  home.  So  she  was 
driven  to  the  station  and  took  the  train  westward.  By 
some  strange  chance  Jason  left  upon  the  same  train, 
but  he  rode  in  the  second-class  car  and  paid  no  heed  to 
the  young  widow  whose  veil  fell  in  decorous  folds  almost 
to  her  feet. 


CHAPTEK  XL VI. 

CLAMOR  IN    THE  HOME   NEST. 

The  news  of  the  attempted  abduction  at  Beechwood 
awakened  the  utmost  excitement  at  Skendoah.  A  thou- 
sand things  had  contributed  to  produce  this  result.  While 
Squire  Kortright  might  be  termed  the  tutelary  deity  of 
the  place,  yet  there  was  a  sort  of  traditional  belief,  very 
largely  due  to  the  significant  winks  and  nods  of  the 
old  man  Shields,  that  the  master  of  Sturmhold  was 
associated  with  Kortright  in  the  enterprise  out  of  which 
the  town  had  grown.  Moreover,  Merwyn  Hargrove  had 
been  a  sort  of  lion  in  the  region  where  he  lived.  There 
was  something  very  attractive  in  the  half  isolation 
which  he  maintained,  as  well  as  in  the  mysterious  tales 
that  had  from  time  to  time  connected  his  name  with 
both  good  and  bad  achievements.  But  whatever  his 
life  had  been,  the  manner  of  his  death  would  have  fixed 
his  place  in  the  esteem  of  his  neighbors  beyond  all  cavil. 
Coming  as  it  did  upon  the  heels  of  their  own  great  ca- 
lamity, and  being  allied  to  it  still  more  closely  in  cause, 
they  gladly  looked  upon  him  as  a  martyr  in  whose  name 
and  fame  they  had  each  a  sort  of  proprietary  interest. 
Added  to  these  facts  was  the  farther  one  that  the  rela- 
tion subsisting  between  Martin  and  Hilda  was  very 
well  understood  throughout  the  region,  and  we  shall 
not  find  it  hard  to  realize  the  excitement  which  the 
story  of  Eighmie's  attempt  and  Hilda's  flight  aroused 
in  the  little  village.  Martin  and  Hilda  for  their  own 
sakes  were  well-beloved.  The  villagers  had  seen  them 
grow  up  from  childhood,  sustaining  to  each  other  always 
the   most  intimate  relations.      Their  mutual  aflectioa 


584  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

had  been  a  matter  of  pleasant  jest  and  kindly  gossip 
long  before  either  of  them  had  suspected  its  existence. 
Hilda's  beauty  and  Martin's  staunch  sincerity  had  deep- 
ened this  impression  until  almost  every  villager  felt  as 
shocked  and  outraged  by  the  news  as  if  his  own  heart's 
dearest  treasure  had  been  ravished  from  his  possession. 
Their  sorrow  and  anger  had  manifested  itself  in  every 
conceivable  form.  Since  the  return  of  Martin,  the  office, 
which  was  now  wholly  under  his  control,  had  been 
thronged  almost  all  the  time  with  sympathizing  friends 
and  visitors. 

A  public  meeting  had  been  held,  and  in  speeches  and 
resolutions  the  people  had  testified  at  once  their  lo5^alty 
to  principle  and  also  their  determination  to  make  the 
most  of  their  own  local  celebrities.  A  band  of  young 
men  had  been  organized  whose  purpose  was  declared  to 
be  the  rescue  of  Hilda  should  she  ever  be  so  unfortunate 
as  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  her  persecutors.  To  say 
that  the  story  of  her  origin  was  disbelieved  in  Sken- 
doah,  but  states  the  truth  too  mildly.  It  was  scouted 
at  as  a  transparent  fraud  by  every  man,  woman  and 
child  in  Skendoah  and  vicinity.  No  one  there  had 
any  more  doubt  of  her  right  to  inherit  as  the  daughter 
of  Merwyn  Hargrove  than  of  the  fact  that  he  had  named 
her  sole  legatee  in  his  will.  This  universal  feeling  was 
intensified  still  more  by  the  knowledge  that  Jared  Clark- 
son  had  become  her  champion  and  defender.  However 
poorly  they  might  have  esteemed  her  cause,  the  fact 
that  he  had  espoused  it  would  have  secured  for  her  their 
sympathy.  When  this  was  added  to  the  other  causes 
mentioned  we  can  well  believe  the  statement  of  the  local 
press,  that  "Skendoah  was  ablaze  with  excitement." 
Had  volunteers  been  called  for  at  any  hour  to  go  to 
her  rescue  the  town  would  have  been  almost  depopulated 
of  its  male  inhabitants. 
It  was  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon — the  very  busiest 


CLAMOR  IN  THE  HOME  NEST.  585 

hour  of  the  day  in  the  office  where  Martin  Kortright 
was  at  work — the  office  from  which  his  father  had  so 
long  directed  those  operations .  that  had  linked  his  name 
forever  with  the  town's  prosperity.  The  plain  black- 
lettered  sign,  "Skendoah  Mills,"  that  hung  over  the 
door  had  never  been  changed.  Though  the  son  was  in 
charge  of  the  great  interests  embraced  by  this  propri- 
etorship, it  was  understood  that  he  was  as  yet  only  the 
right  hand  of  the  father.  In  fact  all  business  papers 
were  still  signed  "Harrison  Kortright,"  though  exe- 
cuted by  "Martin  Kortright,  Attorney." 

Despite  the  hum  of  labor  upon  all  sides,  the  young 
man's  thoughts  were  busy  with  Hilda.  As  he  gave  direc- 
tions in  regard  to  the  purchase  of  supplies,  the  sale  of 
stock,  the  rebuilding  of  the  burned  factories,  now  well 
under  way,  and  a  thousand  other  details  essential  to  a 
great  enterprise,  he  wondered  where  she  was,  and 
whether  she  would  approve  the  course  he  had  decided 
upon.  He  had  yielded  to  his  father's  views  chiefly  be- 
cause he  could  really  see  nothing  else  to  do,  but  also  very 
largely  from  a  conviction  that  Hilda  would  realize  how 
much  harder  it  was  to  obey  her  than  to  follow  his  own 
inclinations  and  seek  to  discover  whither  she  had  flown. 
He  had  an  impression,  too,  that  spies  were  on  his  track, 
and  that  if  he  should  succeed  in  finding  her  it  would 
be  only  to  increase  her  peril.  So  he  worked  on  with  the 
sad,  pale  face  that  had  haunted  him  ever  since  he  heard 
of  her  flight  coming  between  him  and  the  paper  when 
he  wrote,  dimming  his  eyes  and  dulling  his  brain. 

To  the  people  of  Skendoah  this  conduct  on  Martin's 
part  was  the  subject  of  unstinted  praise.  They  would 
not  for  a  moment  admit  that  he  did  not  know  her 
hiding-place.  That  notion  was  to  them  absurd.  They 
believed  that  he  knew,  and  kept  away  in  order  that  she 
need  not  be  traced  through  him. 

"They  won't  ever  git   that  gal  by  foUerin'  up  his 


586  HOT  PLOWSHARES. 

tracks,"  said  Shields,  pursing  up  his  thin  lips  and 
glancing  approvingly  over  the  razor-like  edge  of  his 
nose  at  Martin  through  the  office  window.  "Both  of 
'em  are  too  much  like  them  they  're  named  after  to  be 
caught  in  that  way.  Here  he  is  pokin'  'round  here  as 
innocent  and  careless  as  you  can  imagine,  and  Hilda 
nowhere  in  the  world  that  anybody  knows  on.  Now, 
mark  my  words — the  first  you  know  that  young  man  '11 
take  it  into  his  head  to  travel  and  drown  his  grief, 
and  the  next  thing  you  '11  hear  there  '11  be  a  wedding 
somewhere  over  the  water,  and  they  '11  snap  their 
fingers  at  slave-catchers.  And  Skendoah  '11  stand  by 
'em,  too,  and  furnish  them  the  money  to  have  a  good 
time — furnish  it  regular  every  week,  and  lots  of  it,  too. 
Bless  their  hearts,  if  anybody  ever  deserved  it,  it 's  just 
them  two." 

There  was  a  suspicion  of  moisture  about  the  old  man's 
eyes  as  he  spoke.  He  had  hardly  gone  a  hundred 
yards  from  the  office  Avhen  he  heard  a  tumult  in  the 
street  leading  toward  the  depot.  What  could  it  mean  ? 
A  carriage  was  coming  slowly  along  tlie  street,  beside 
which  walked  and  ran  and  shouted  an  ever-increasing 
crowd.  Hats  and  handkerchiefs  were  waving  in  the 
air.  Men  forsook  their  shops  and  women  their  houses 
to  join  the  cavalcade.  Crowds  poured  out  of  the  fac- 
tories, and  all  was  clamor  and  confusion.  At  length 
the  driver  whipped  his  horses  into  a  quick  trot,  the 
crowd  was  left  behind,  and  the  carriage  drove  up  to 
the  office  door.  Jason  sprang  from  the  driver's  seat 
and  assisted  a  lady  in  deep  mourning  to  alight.  As  she 
touched  the  ground  she  threw  aside  her  veil,  and 
showed  a  bright  soft  blush  upon  her  cheeks.  She  ran 
up  the  steps,  pushed  back  the  door  that  stood  ajar,  and 
saw  Martin  gazing  blankly  upon  the  page  before  him. 
His  pen  Avas  idle,  and  his  thought  was  not  of  business. 
In  the  room  beyond  slu;  could   hear  the  clerks  busily 


CLAMOR  IN  THE  HOME  NEST.  587 

calling  to  each  other  from  the  books  they  were  posting. 
The  clamor  outside  came  nearer  while  she  paused.  The 
blush  grew  deeper.  She  held  her  breath,  and  stole  on 
tiptoe  up  to  him.  Looking  over  his  shoulder  she  saw 
the  page  before  him  held  but  one  word,  "Hilda." 
There  was  a  rustle — the  perfume  of  a  remembered 
presence — a  pair  of  soft  hands  were  about  his  neck, 
warm  lips  pressed  his  own,  and  a  voice  whispered : 

"Martin  !" 

There  was  a  quick  uprising  and  a  fond  embrace.  After 
a  time  the  blushing,  tearful  face,  framed  in  dull  black  and 
translucent  white,  smiled  up  from  its  resting-place  upon 
his  breast  and  said : 

"I  have  come  !" 

The  clamor  swelled  louder  and  louder  without.  Some 
one  had  bethought  them  of  the  town  bell,  and  its  deep, 
sonorous  peal  rang  joyfully  out  over  the  excited  town. 
The  water  was  shut  off.  The  wheels  were  still.  The 
square  in  the  middle  of  the  town  was  alive  with  eager 
faces.  After  a  time  Martin  appeared  in  the  office  door 
with  Hilda  upon  his  arm.  Then  the  crowd  went  wild. 
Cheer  after  cheer  went  up.  The  one  piece  of  ordnance  in 
the  town  was  dragged  forth  from  its  dusty  hiding-place 
beneath  the  stairs  of  the  town  hall  and  mingled  its  re- 
verberations with  the  clangor  of  the  bells  and  the  shouts 
of  the  people.  Harrison  Kortright,  in  the  library  at 
Sturmhold,  heard  its  echoes  faintly.  For  almost  a  week 
sleep  had  hardly  visited  his  eyelids.  He  started  up  on 
his  couch,  listened  for  a  short  time  to  the  recurrent 
shocks,  smiled  peacefully,  and  said  to  the  plump  matron 
by  the  bedside  : 

"  They  've  heard  from  Hilda." 

Then  he  laid  his  head  upon  the  pillow  and  slept. 


CHAPTER  XL VII. 

A  FLICKERING  LA]^IP. 

It  was  a  boisterous  cavalcade  that  set  out  for  Sturm- 
hold  that  afternoon.  The  Father,  it  is  true,  had  been 
but  a  short  time  dead,  but  the  Daughter  was  alive  again. 
She  was  like  one  risen  from  the  dead.  She  had  come 
through  the  ordeal  unscathed.  The  hot  plowshares  she 
bad  been  called  upon  to  tread  beneath  her  feet  had  not 
scorched  even  the  tender  soles.  When  they  were  ready- 
to  leave  the  village,  they  found  a  procession  ready  to  es- 
cort them.  Men,  women  and  children,  almost  the  entire 
population  of  Skendoah,  with  the  brass  band  in  the  lead, 
discoursing  triumphant  music,  marched  out  of  the  little 
square  down  the  narrow  street,  across  the  bridge  and  up 
the  hill  beyond.  The  blue  waters  of  Memnona  glittered 
in  the  sunshine.  Hats  and  handkerchiefs  and  banners 
waved  adieu.  Shouts  and  laughter  and  tears  spoke  their 
well  wishing.  Smiles  and  tears  testified  the  pleasure  that 
even  in  her  sorrow  Hilda  gathered  from  this  good-will. 
A  few  carriages  and  a  gay  group  of  horsemen  escorted 
the  lovers  homeward.  The  air  was  chill,  but  the  De- 
cember sun  was  bright ;  the  roads  were  hard,  the  pace 
was  brisk,  and,  despite  the  trace  of  sorrow,  jocund  Love 
led  the  procession.  Sorrow  for  the  dead  could  not  quench 
the  joy  of  the  living.  The  old  life  was  ended  ;  the  new 
begun.  Trustor  and  trustee  were  of  the  past ;  the  cestuis 
que  trust  had  come  into  their  own.  All  that  the  past  had 
sown,  the  present  had  come  to  reap. 

As  they  drew  near  the  gray-turreted  mansion,  one  by 
one  the  friends  who  had  borne  tb-m  company  thus  far 
bade  them  farewell  with  cheerfu  vvords,  bright  smiles 
5SS 


A  FLICKERING  LAMP.  589 

and  wind-blown  kisses.  Despite  their  joy  at  her  return, 
they  felt  that  only  Love  might  accompany  the  bereaved 
daughter  within  the  home  made  sacred  by  the  memory 
of  one  who  would  not  come  again,  despite  her  prayers  and 
tears.  Leaning  upon  Martin's  arm,  and  shielded  by  the 
veil  which  had  been  her  refuge  from  peril,  Hilda  entered 
again  the  temple  filled  with  her  father's  memory.  Oh, 
how  divine  the  fragrance  that  clings  about  the  home 
where  love  hath  dwelt !  The  dim,  faint  memory  of  a 
mother's  waning  life  mingled  here  with  the  abounding 
richness  of  a  father's  love.  His  presence  was  every- 
where— upon  the  graveled  walk,  beside  the  gate,  within 
the  door — wheresoever  she  turned  her  eyes  she  beheld 
him — her  loved,  her  lost.  She  saw  the  servants  through 
her  tears — those  who  had  served  him.  She  thanked  them 
with  gentle  obeisance  for  the  greeting  which  they  gave 
his  daughter.  She  half  resented  the  presence  of  Harrison 
Kortright  and  the  gray -haired  dame  who  greeted  her  with 
motherly  effusion  in  the  hall.  Even  Martin  seemed  to  be 
almost  an  intrusion  at  that  hour.  She  broke  away  from 
them  and  rushed  along  the  hall  to  the  great  stairway. 
Then  she  turned  quickly,  threw  her  arms  about  Martin's 
neck ;  kissed  him  through  her  tears,  as  if  she  would  do 
penance  for  her  thought ;  hid  her  head  upon  his  breast 
and  wept  in  his  embrace.  As  she  turned  away  she  saw 
a  head  thrust  out  of  a  door  beyond,  and  a  quick,  furtive 
look  of  surprise  and  hate  shot  past  her  and  rested  upon 
Martin.  She  recognized  her  old  nurse  and  went  forward 
and  spoke  pleasantly.  A  dull,  vacant  stare  was  all  she 
received.  Then  she  fled  away  to  her  own  room,  locked 
the  door,  and,  for  the  first  time  since  her  bereavement, 
gave  way  to  the  sweet,  sad  luxury  of  sorrow. 

Of  tha- great  house  which  he  had  builded,  three  rooms 
had  almost  bounded  the  solitary  life  of  Merwyn  Har- 
grove— the  room  in  which  his  wife  died,  that  in  which 
his  daughter  slept  and  the  library  where  the  treasures 


590  HOT  PL  0  WSHARE8. 

of  his  unfortunate  brother's  life  were.  These  con- 
stituted his  home — ah,  liow  empty  now  that  he  would 
fill  it  no  more  with  his  strong  life  !  This  had  been  her 
childhood  home.  What  pleasures  had  not  thronged  all 
the  familiar  nooks  !  Safety,  repose,  love — home.  All 
good  things  had  come  to  her  within  its  walls.  Without, 
sorrow  and  danger  and  unutterable  horror !  Love  had 
met  her  on  this  very  threshold.  In  this  room  she  had 
bent  down  from  her  father's  arms  to  press  the  first  kiss 
on  his  lips  who  was  now  her  lover. 

The  room  adjoining — if  the  unclosed  folding-doors 
could  be  said  to  have  separated  them — was  her  father's 
— the  holy  of  holies,  into  which  she  had  come  each 
morning  since  her  recollection — a  white-robed  wor- 
shipper— a  welcome  priestess,  with  her  morning  greet- 
ing, to  receive  her  morning  kiss.  From  the  tower 
adjoining  this — her  mother's  sunny  boudoir  it  had  been 
in  her  life,  and  nothing  there  had  been  disturbed — a  nar- 
row stairway  led  down  to  the  library,  opening  with  curi- 
ous art  behind  a  case  of  books  that  seemed  only  to  have 
been  thrust  out  from  the  wall  to  make  room  for  the  vol- 
umes upon  its  crowded  shelves. 

How  often  in  her  childhood  she  had  risen  in  the 
night  and  sought  her  father  in  the  library !  How  her 
bare  feet  pattered  down  the  lonely  staircase,  and  bounded 
across  the  warm  tufted  carpet  to  the  outstretched  arms  ! 
How  often  she  knew  nothing  of  the  return  until  she 
waked  to  find  her  father's  arms  about  her  in  the  morn- 
ing !  Oh,  tender,  strong-armed  father !  Oh,  watchful, 
loving  heart  I  How  his  presence  thrilled  her  memory  1 
How  his  absence  chilled  her  heart !  She  knelt  by  his 
bedside  and  wept  and  prayed.  How  grateful  was  her 
heart  that  he  had  been  ;  how  disconsolate  that  he  was 
not  1  Ah,  how  passionately  she  kissed  the  white,  cool 
pillow — kissed  it  because  his  head  had  pressed  it,  be- 
cause it  would  press  it  no  more  1 


A  PLtCKERlKG  LAMP.  591 

After  a  time  they  called  her  to  the  evenmg  meal.  She 
begged  to  be  left  alone.  Then  Mrs.  Kortright  came. 
She  would  not  see  her.  Jason  came  afterward,  and^ 
with  the  privileged  persistency  of  the  old  servant, 
knocked  until  she  answered — knocked  until  she  wiped 
her  tear-stained  eyes,  and  opened  the  door  a  little  way 
that  he  might  speak  to  her.  He  did  not  ask  her  to  eat — 
he  did  not  try  to  persuade,  but  told  her  that  on  the  stand 
before  the  hearth  in  the  library  he  had  placed  a  lunch. 
There  was  a  good  fire  there  that  would  last  all  night.  If 
she  should  get  cold  or  hungry  in  the  night  she  would  re- 
member the  stairway  in  the  tower.  The  fire  made  it 
look  "mighty  cosy"  there,  he  said,  "most  as  if  Marse 
Merwyn  himself  were  there."  She  thanked  him  grate- 
fully for  his  deft  attention.  Then  he  went  away  and  left 
her  to  live  over  again  the  life  the  dead  had  shaped  and 
blessed.  It  was  not  until  long  afterward,  when  the  night 
had  grown  still  and  her  limbs  were  numbed  and  chill  as 
if  with  long  embracement  of  the  dead,  that  youth  and 
health  conquered  her  sorrow,  and  she  stole  down  the 
stairs  to  the  library. 

N'o  sooner  had  Hilda  arrived  at  Sturmhold  than  Harri- 
son Kortright,  with  subtle  forecast  of  her  wishes,  di- 
rected everything  to  be  removed  from  the  library  that 
could  in  any  manner  suggest  its  occupancy  by  another 
since  her  father's  death.  During  the  short  time  he  had 
been  there  he  had  often  thought  that  she  might  be  an- 
noyed at  his  presence.  Yet  he  had  remained  because  it 
seemed  his  duty  to  occupy  the  mansion,  and  no  other 
room  was  so  home-like  and  comfortable  to  him.  In  truth 
he  seemed  to  be  nearer  to  the  man  whose  interests  he 
had  undertaken  to  guard  there  than  elsewhere.  As  soon 
as  she  came,  however,  his  couch  was  taken  away,  and 
the  lounge  that  Hargrove  had  used  substituted  in  its 
place.  His  easy-chair  and  all  that  could  betoken  his 
presence  was  removed.    So  when  Hilda  came  softly  down 


592  HO  T  PLO  WSBARE8. 

the  stairway,  opened  the  half-concealed  door  and  stepped 
into  the  room,  she  almost  felt  as  if  her  father  would  step 
forth  from  some  dim  alcove  to  give  her  welcome. 

The  wood-fire  had  burned  low,  but  a  great  mass  of 
glowing  embers  dispensed  a  comfortable  warmth.  An 
easy-chair  sat  beside  the  hearth.  A  shaded  lamp  cast  a 
soft  radiance  through  the  room.  She  sat  down  and 
warmed  her  chilled  hands.  After  a  time  she  lifted  the 
snowy  cloth  and  began  to  eat  the  luncheon  that  had 
been  provided  for  her.  The  keenness  of  her  sorrow  had 
passed  away.  A  sweet  drowsy  mood,  full  of  tender 
memories,  came  over  her.  Little  by  little  consciousness 
receded,  and  she  slept.  Thought  shaped  itself  into  a 
dream.  She  was  still  sitting  by  the  fire  in  the  library, 
but  now  she  was  waiting'  for  her  father's  coming.  She 
watched  the  door,  expecting  every  moment  that  it  would 
open  and  admit  him.  She  grew  weary  with  delay,  and 
wondered  why  he  did  not  come  as  she  dreamed  that  he 
had  promised.  She  fancied  that  some  great  danger 
beset  him.  She  thought  that  he  was  calling  to  her,  but 
she  could  not  go.  Her  limbs  were  leaden,  but  each  sense 
was  marvelously  keen.  The  wall  of  the  library  seemed 
to  open,  and  she  saw  beyond.  Gradually  the  personality 
of  her  dream  changed.  Her  father  faded  from  her 
thought,  but  the  sense  of  peril  still  remained.  Now  it 
was  Martin  over  whom  it  impended.  She  was  still  in 
the  library.  He  was  in  his  own  room — the  room  in  tlie 
tower  tliat  matched  her  mother's  boudoir.  She  knew 
that  he  had  chosen  that  since  he  had  lived  at  Sturmhold, 
because  it  had  been  their  play-room  in  childhood.  How 
strange  our  dreaming  fancies  are  !  She  dreamed  that 
the  fii-e  rolled  out  upon  the  hearth  and  spread — a  livid, 
seething  torrent — to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  that  led  up  to 
her  lover's  room.  It  charred  the  floor,  curled  about  the 
steps,  caught  the  banisters,  blistered  the  wall,  and  gnawed 
its  way  slowly  upward. 


A  FLICKERING  LAMP.  593 

Then  .she  saw  a  figure — who  could  it  be  ?  It  seemed 
that  she  ought  to  recognize  it,  but  she  did  not,  A  figure 
with  Avild  eyes,  disheveled  hair,  and  garments  strangely 
disarrayed.  She  saw  it  steal  along  the  hall,  burst  into 
the  library,  rush  to  her  father's  desk,  tear  open  the  lid, 
grope  nervously  about  for  a  while,  and  then,  with  a  sud- 
den, eager  cry,  snatch  something  from  within,  and  press 
it  to  her  bosom.  The  dream  had  merged  into  reality. 
Hilda  was  wide  awake.  She  saw  a  woman  standing  by 
her  father's  desk  whom  she  did  not  know.  She  had 
forgotten  for  the  moment  that  he  was  dead.  She  thought 
a  robbery — a  wrong  to  him— was  being  committed,  and 
sprang  forward  to  prevent  it.  She  clutched  the  woman 
by  the  arm  and  shrieked  for  help.  The  startled  rob- 
ber turned  on  her  assailant.  A  brand  had  rolled  out 
upon  the  hearth  and  burst  into  a  blaze.  Hilda's  pale  face 
and  black  robe  stood  revealed  by  its  light.  A  strange 
look  of  terrified  recognition  flashed  across  the  woman's 
face.  The  wild,  frenzied  glare  died  out  of  her  eyes.  She 
ceased  to  struggle,  shivered,  and  shrank  away. 

"  Rietta  !  Rietta  !"  she  said  in  a  voice  hoarse  with  ter- 
ror. Then,  with  a  shriek  of  mortal  fear,  she  sank  down 
upon  the  floor  a  shivering,  chattering,  shapeless  mass, 
and  Hilda  recognized  her  old  nurse,  the  crazed  and  piti- 
able Alida. 

Hilda's  cries  brought  the  household  to  the  library. 
When  they  raised  Alida  to  bear  her  away,  a  curiously- 
wrought  key  dropped  from  her  hand.  As  they  went  past 
the  room  in  the  base  of  the  tower  the  smell  of  fire  began 
to  pervade  the  house.  The  door  was  locked.  They  burst 
it  open  and  found  the  flame,  half-smothered  by  its  own 
hot  breath,  creeping  slowly  up  the  stairs.  It  was  soon 
quenched,  and  the  unconscious  sleeper  above  knew  not 
how  near  the  stealthy  foot  of  death  had  come  to  him, 
until  he  heard  a  terrified  voice  calling  at  his  door  :  and 


594  HOT  PLOWSHAHES. 

when  he  answered  he  heard  a  fervent  "  Thank  God,"  as 
Hilda  tripped  across  tlie  liall  to  her  own  room  and  was 
back  in  the  hbrary  ahuost  before  Mr,  Kortright  had 
noted  her  absence.  Martin  soon  joined  them.  Hilda 
told  the  story  of  the  night,  and  Mr.  Kortright  of  many 
other  nights.  Then  Jason  came  with  the  key  that  had 
dropped  from  Alida's  hand.  He  said  it  was  the  key  of 
the  strong  box  that  Merwyn  Hargrove  had  built  into  the 
wall  of  Sturmhold.  He  had  lost  it  just  before  he  went 
away,  and  had  more  than  once  bewailed  the  fact.  Then 
they  wondered  how  Alida  came  to  have  it  at  that  time, 
and  Mr.  Kortright  went  to  examine  the  desk.  Upon  the 
left  a  secret  drawer  lay  open  to  his  gaze  ;  what  seemed 
the  framework  of  the  desk,  having  turned  inward  on  a 
hinge,  disclosed  a  tiny  recess  in  which  a  bundle  of  papers 
still  lay.  Mr.  Kortright  took  them  up,  and,  after  merely 
glancing  at  the  indorsements,  handed  them  to  Hilda. 
There  were  ten  of  them,  and  the  indorsements  corres- 
ponded with  those  upon  the  wrapper  in  the  possession  of 
Jared  Clarkson,  as  Mr.  Kortright  noted  at  once.  In  the 
meantime  Jason  was  searching  among  the  same  books 
Alida  had  been  wont  to  examine,  for  the  missing  volume. 
Hilda  remembered  having  seen  it  in  her  father's  room. 
When  she  had  brought  it,  Jason  turned  it  over  until  he 
found  a  blue  mark  drawn  around  the  paging.  This  was 
the  combination  on  Avhich  the  safe  was  locked  He  drew 
the  heavy  desk  away  from  the  wall,  and  quickly  threw 
back  a  panel  of  the  wainscoting  and  revealed  a  small 
vault  filled  with  papers,  A  brief  examination  showed 
that  this  hidden  store-house  contained  neither  deeds  nor 
bonds  nor  any  evidence  of  debt  or  thing  of  appreciable 
value,  but  only  the  records  of  love — letters  and  mementos 
of  the  wife  he  had  never  ceased  to  mourn — the  letters 
they  had  exchanged  as  lovers,  and  afterward  as  husband 
and  wife.  There  were  some  letters  in  a  cramped  Italian 
hand  from  Hilda's  grandfather,  and  a  large  package  of 


A  FLICKERING  LAMP.  595 

them  from  Miss  Fanny  Errickson,  in  regard  to  the  little 
nursling  which  had  been  left  in  her  care.  This  was 
the  name  which  Jason  had  persisted  in  calling  Rickson. 
By  these,  Hilda's  history  might  be  traced  almost  day  by 
day  from  the  hour  her  mother  left  her,  in  Kingston,  until 
the  good  lady,  then  on  her  way  to  England  after  her 
father's  death,  had  written:  "I  send  this  by  Captain 
Hargrove,  who  has  been  laughing  and  crying  by  turns  for 
an  hour,  over  the  sturdy  little  girl  I  have  brought  him 
instead  of  the  puny  babe  he  remembers.  She  is  indeed 
a  beautiful  child,  and  I  hope  that  in  the  happy  life  before 
her  she  may  not  quite  forget  her  volunteer  nurse,  who 
only  wishes  she  might  never  part  with  her  little  Hilda." 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  Martin,  ":  that  Alida  should  have 
known  where  the  key  was  hidden." 

"  Good  reason  why  she  knew,"  exclaimed  Jason.  "  She 
put  it  there  herself.  I  could  most  take  my  oath  Captain 
Hargrove  never  knowed  of  that  little  till.  I  never  heard 
of  it,  certain.  Besides,  he  told  me  himself  the  key  was 
lost." 

"But  how  did  she  know  where  to  find  the  combina- 
tion?" 

"  Jest  watched  till  she  found  where  he  kept  it,"  replied 
Jason.  "  I  told  Marse  Merwyn  that  woman  was  always 
spyin'  round.  But  he  said  it  didn't  make  no  sort  of  difler- 
ence.  There  was  nothing  for  her  to  find  out,  and  she 
was  a  poor,  no-'count  creature  at  the  best,  and  could  do 
no  sort  of  harm  to  any  one.  It  seems  she  did  find  out 
something,  though,  and  might  have  done  a  power  of 
harm." 

"  What  do  you  suppose  Avas  her  purpose  ?"  asked  Hilda 
of  Harrison  Kortright. 

"It  is  hard  to  tell,"  said  he  with  a  sigh,  "just  what 
she  meant  to  do.  She  had  undoubtedly  M^atched  your 
father  at  his  desk,  and  was  perhaps  aware  of  the  nature 
of  his  communication  to  Clarkson.     Her  malady,  per- 


596  EOT  PLOWSHARES. 

haps,  was  less  serious  then  than  now.  She  had  dwelt 
upon  the  idea  that  you  were  her  daughter  until  it  had 
become  the  controlling  idea  of  her  disordered  mind.  She 
probably  removed  these  papers  from  the  envelope  and 
substituted  others,  not,  perhaps,  thinking  of  the  charac- 
ter of  those  put  in  their  places  so  much  as  the  abstrac- 
tion of  these." 

"But  why  should  she  wish  the  key  to  this  vault  ?"  in- 
quired Hilda. 

"For  the  same  reason,  probably,"  said  Kortright. 
"She  seems  to  have  thought  that  if  she  could  destroy 
the  evidence  that  you  were  the  daughter  of  Merwyu 
Hargrove,  you  would  of  necessity  be  considered  as  her 
child." 

"  So  you  think  her  purpose  was  to  destroy  them  ?" 

"  Originally  that  was  her  design,  without  a  doubt.  Of 
late,  in  her  nightly  intervals  of  semi-lucidity  she  seems  to 
have  had  a  distinct  purpose.  Her  crazed  brain  remem- 
bered that  there  was  something  at  the  left  of  the  desk 
that  she  wanted.  She  had  half-forgotten  what  it  was 
and  where  she  had  hidden  it.  She  dimly  remembered, 
also,  that  there  was  something  in  that  set  of  books  that 
was  somehow  connected  with  lier  general  design.  I  doubt 
if  she  knew  what  it  was.  She  no  doubt  opened  the  drawer 
to-night  by  accident,  or  the  sight  of  Martin  may  have 
stimulated  her  memory  so  that  she  recollected  where  it 
was.  The  possession  of  the  key  may,  perhaps,  have  en- 
abled her  to  recall  what  it  was  she  Avished  to  find  in  the 
i)ook  she  was  accustomed  to  examine  on  her  nightly  visits 
to  the  library,  or  it  may  be  that  she  only  knew  that  your 
father  always  looked  at  the  book  before  opening  the  safe, 
and  had  no  distinct  idea  what  it  was  she  sought." 

"  Poor  Alida  !"  sighed  Hilda. 

Aye,  poor  indeed  !  Her  life  had  exemplified  the  fearful 
possibilities  for  horror  that  a  system  destined  to  swift  de- 
struction held.     After  a  life  of  shame  and  sorrow  and 


A  FLICKERING  LAMP.  597 

misery  her  poor  crazed  brain  was  .soon  to  be  at  rest. 
When  one  came  searching  for  her  a  few  days  afterward, 
in  order  that  a  mother's  crime  might  be  in  part  atoned, 
he  was  just  in  time  to  gaze  upon  a  still,  cold  face,  note  a 
birth-mark,  which  the  abundant  iron-gray  hair  had  hid, 
and  stand  by  her  open  grave. 

"Poor  Lida,"  repeated  Hilda,  as  she  thought  of  the 
woes  that  had  beset  the  life  of  one  Avhose  worst  fault  had 
been  an  unreasoning  love  for  her.  Tears  fell  fast  as  she 
thought  what  Alida  had  suffered  and  she  herself  had  es- 
caped. 

Aye,,  weep  gentle  heiress  of  sweet  memories  !  The  last 
plowshare  is  overpast.  Ah,  not  the  last !  The  children 
of  George  Eighmie,  whom  your  father  has  given  you  in 
charge  to  watch  over — what  of  them  ? 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

SOME  BITS   OF   GOSSIP. 

AiiY  Hargrove  had  at  length  an  answer  to  her  letter. 
It  was  very  brief,  merely  referring  her  to  a  letter  which 
the  writer  had  sent  to  Miss  HuuniAvell.  So,  in  response 
to  her  request,  the  teacher  visited  her  convalescent 
pupil,  taking  with  her  the  letter  alluded  to.  It  was 
from  the  president  of  the  Bank  of  the  Metropolis,  and 
was  in  response  to  one  of  the  circular  letters  she  had 
sent  out  announcing  the  discontinuance  of  the  school  for 
the  time  being,  and  inclosing  bill  for  Amy's  board  and 
tuition. 

She  had  also  suggested  that  because  of  the  injury  Amy 
had  received  she  might  require  more  than  her  usual 
allowance  for  the  term.  It  was  in  this  manner  that  all 
of  Amy's  bills  had  been  paid,  and  all  communication 
with  her  guardian  had  been  made  through  the  president 
of  the  bank.  To  this  letter  Miss  Hunniwell  received 
the  following  reply  : 

"Madame:  I  have  yours  of  the  8tli  lust.,  and  inclose 
draft  for  the  amount  of  your  bill.  In  response  to  your 
farther  suggestion,  it  may  be  well  for  me  to  state  that  the 
remainder  of  the  sum  deposited  with  me  for  the  benefit  of 
Miss  Amy  Hargrove  amounts  to  $674.43,  which  will  be 
paid  to  your  order  or  to  hers.  In  case  she  should  desire  to 
draw  on  us,  however,  we  should  require  your  indorsement 
as  a  guarantee  that  the  money  actually  readied  her  hands. 

"I  deem  it  proper  to  state  here  that  no  farther  responsi- 
bility will  be  assumed  on  account  of  the  young  lady  by 
the  person  who  made  this  deposit.  It  is  needless,  there- 
fore, to  advise  prudence  in  its  expenditure.  It  will  in-oh- 
598 


BITS  OF  GOSSIP.  599 

ably  suffice  to  carry  her  through  the  next  term,  when  it 
would  be  wise  for  her  to  seek  some  means  of  self-support. 

"To  avoid  needless  inquiry,  it  may  be  well  for  me  to 
add  that  I  am  strictly  prohibited  from  disclosing  the  name 
of  the  party  who  provided  this  fund,  save  upon  his  written 
request  or  that  of  his  legal  representatives. 

"With  the  utmost  sympathy  for  the  young  lady  and 
yourself,  I  am  your  obedient  servant, 

"Willis  Kenyon,  President^ 

Amy's  pinched,  cold  face  became  ashen  in  its  pallor 
as  she  read  this  letter,  and  tossing  back  her  curls  looked 
up  at  the  teacher  with  a  wild  terror  in  her  great  black 
eyes.  Her  lips  grew  white,  and  a  shiver  passed  through 
her  frame  as  she  asked  huskily : 

"  What  does  it  mean  V" 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  the  teacher  kindly. 

There  came  to  Jared  Ciarkson,  while  yet  at  Burling- 
dale,  by  the  hand  of  a  brisk  young  attorney,  a  letter 
from  Matthew  Bartlemy  to  this  effect : 

"My  Dear  Sir:  I  can  hardly  make  out  what  you  are 
all  doing  up  there  in  Blankshire.  Why  you  haven't  put 
Eighmie  where  he  can  have  a  chance  to  cool  his  heels  in 
solitude  before  this,  I  cannot  imagine.  However,  I  suppose 
you  know.  I  'm  almost  sorry  for  the  man,  too.  He  wouldn't 
have  been  half  the  fool  he  is  if  his  counsel,  Bob  Gilman, 
was  not  so  powerful  sharp  that  he  can't  use  the  little 
sense  the  Lord  gave  him.  He  was  just  possessed  with  the 
idea  that  Hilda  was  George  Eighmie's  child,  and  had  been 
adopted  by  Hargrove  as  his  own  in  order  to  conceal  her 
identity.  I  don't  know  why  he  took  up  the  notion  unless 
it  was  just  because  that  was  a  thing  no  human  being  that 
had  a  grain  of  sense  would  ever  think  of  doing.  I  knew 
Gilman  had  that  idea  years  ago,  and  I  must  say  I  was  foolish 
enough,  one  while,  to  be  a  little  afraid  it  might  be  true.  I 
even  went  so  far  as  to  sound  Hargrove  on  it  myself.     But, 


600  HOI   PLOWSHAMES. 

bless  your  heart,  I  never  was  more  ashamed  of  a  thing  in  my 
life.  Why  there  wasn't  a  quiver  in  his  eye  nor  a  flush  on  his 
face  as  he  spoke  of  it.  A  half-amused,  half-pitying  smile  stole 
round  his  mouth  as  he  referred  to  it,  evidently  not  dreaming 
that  any  one  but  a  crazy  woman  cou^ld  entertain  such  an 
idea.  I  didn't  say  anything  about  it  when  I  came  back, 
because  I  had  a  notion  that  some  time  or  other  Gilman 
would  burn  his  fingers  with  it,  just  as  he  has.  That  letter 
to  you  that  was  found  on  Hargrove's  body  clinched  this  no- 
tion in  his  mind,  and  I  must  say  it  did  squint  that  way 
mighty  strong.  If  I  had  not  known  better  I  might  have 
weakened  then.  But  I  knew  a  man  had  better  try  to  walk 
on  water  than  think  of  standing  on  that  hypothesis.  So  I 
only  laughed  to  myself,  and  watched  to  see  where  I  could 
put  in  to  advantage  in  Oilman's  game.  I  had  no  fear  for 
Hilda,  though  I  cannot  quite  understand  that  letter.  Har- 
grove was  a  mighty  careful  man  about  his  papers,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  you  have  the  whole  riddle  at  your  fingers'  ends 
before  now.  What  has  become  of  Hilda,  though,  it  puzzles 
me  to  make  out.  It  isn't  like  the  girl  to  run  away.  She 
don't  come  of  running  stock,  and  always  seemed  to  have 
spirit  enough  to  do  credit  to  her  blood.  From  what  the 
papers  say  it  looks  as  if  there  was  something  you  were 
afraid  of.  Knowing  it  cannot  be  Hilda,  I  have  wondered 
if  it  could  be  that  Eighmie's  mistake  was  nearer  what  he 
wished  than  the  game  he  expected  to  bag. 

"However,  I  will  not  try  to  make  any  guesses  at  this  dis- 
tance, bv\t  tell  you  why  I  send  the  bearer  to  you  now.  He 
brings  almost  conclusive  proof — indeed  I  think  it  is  conclu- 
sive— that  the  mother  of  Alida  was  never  a  slave,  conse- 
quently Alida  was  not  a  slave,  and  Eighmie's  marriage 
with  her  was  valid.  This  evidence  consists  of  the  sworn 
confession  of  a  woman  who  has  lately  died,  to  the  effect 
that  she  was  delivered  of  an  illegitimate  female  child  at  the 
house  of  Dr.  Gant,  which  she  left  in  his  care — or  rather  to 
his  pity — for,  though  she  gave  him  a  hundred  dollars  more 
than  he  stipulated  for  his  services,  she  made  no  conditions 


BITS  OF  GOSSIP.  601 

about  the  child.  Indeed,  she  avers  that  she  never  saw  it 
but  once,  and  expressly  told  him  she  had  no  desire  to  see  it 
again.  She  had  been  sent  to  Dr.  Gant  under  an  assumed 
name,  in  order  to  conceal  her  disgrace,  and  never  in- 
formed the  doctor  what  her  real  name  was.  She  thought 
little  of  the  matter  until  many  years  afterward,  when,  a 
childless  widow,  she  began  to  mourn  for  the  babe  she  had 
so  inhumanly  cast  away  among  strangers.  Before  that, 
however,  the  doctor  had  died,  and  her  agent  could  get  no 
clue  to  the  girl's  identity.  He  happened  to  strike  on  me, 
and  told  me  enough  of  the  story  to  awaken  my  suspicion 
that  the  daughter  was  Alida.  As  the  woman  was  still  alive, 
at  that  time,  and  was  not  exactly  ready  to  admit  the  whole 
truth,  however,  I  only  hinted  at  what  I  knew.  At  the  same 
time,  I  made  up  my  mind  that  if  I  heard  of  Salathiel  Jenkins 
being  in  this  state  I  would  get  the  ti-utli  out  of  him  so  far  as 
he  knew  it.  There  were  one  or  two  old  things  hanging  over 
Jenkins  that  I  knew  would  incline  him  mightily  toward 
truth-telling  if  he  could  hope  thereby  to  keep  me  from 
hooking  on  to  him.  After  a  while  I  got  hold  of  Jenkins  sure 
enough,  and  he  gave  the  affidavit  which  Mr.  Torrens  will 
show  you.  I  ought  to  have  said  before  that  the  bearer  is 
Alfred  Torrens,  Esq.,  of  Gleason,  Torrens  &  Torrens,  Attor- 
neys, Washington — a  most  respectable  firm.  You  probably 
know  the  old  man  Torrens,  as  he  is  very  much  of  an  Aboli- 
tionist, though  not  quite  as  rank  as  you.  This  affidavit  closes 
up  the  gap  pretty  closely.  The  dates  agree  with  the  woman's 
confession,  and  the  doctor's  letters,  to  which  he  refers,  give 
the  name  by  which  the  woman  was  known  while  under 
Gaut's  care.  It  evidently  lay  on  the  doctor's  conscience,  for 
Jenkins  says  he  tried  repeatedly  to  find  the  girl,  but  he 
always  blocked  the  way  by  telling  him  that  he  had  forgotten 
what  he  did  with  her.  I  suspect  there  was  some  blackmail- 
ing, if  not  some  kidnapping  done  by  Jenkins  in  the  matter. 
The  woman  has  left  property,  I  think,  to  this  daughter,  or 
her  descendants,  under  some  sort  of  impossible  conditions 
which  Mr.  Torrens  will  explain  to  you  if  he  sees  fit.    I 


G02  HO  T  PLO  W SHARES. 

infer  that  the  gist  of  them  is  that  the  beneficiaries  t^liall  take 
the  testatrix's  name,  and  that  her  youthful  frailty  shall  be 
entirely  concealed.  Whether  you  can  aid  him  or  not  de- 
pends, I  think,  on  whether  you  understand  Hargrove's  let- 
ter to  you.  If  you  do  you  probably  have  the  clue  in  your 
hand.  If  you  do  not,  the  Lord  only  knows  where  the  young 
man  will  have  to  go  to  find  that  necessary  bit  of  thread. 

"My  chief  interest  in  the  matter  is  that  it  cuts  Gilman's 
folks  out  of  all  chance  to  recover  Mallowbanks  or  mulct 
Hargrove's  executors  in  damages  for  his  spoliation  of  the 
estate  in  manumitting  the  slaves.  We  can  close  the  whole 
thing  up  now,  and  when  the  little  girl  Hilda  comes  of  age  or 
marries,  she  can  step  right  into  an  unincumbered  inherit- 
ance, which  I  hope  she  will  enjoy,  as  her  father  had  trouble 
enough  over  other  people's  folly.  By  the  way,  please  give 
the  child  my  regards,  and'  tell  her  that  when  it  does  come 
off — her  marriage,  I  mean — old  Matthew  Bartlemy  will  ex- 
pect an  invitation,  and  is  going  to  come  all  the  way  to 
Sturmhold  to  drink  her  health  and  dance  the  first  set  with 
the  bride.  Though  I  svispect  the  son  of  that  clear-headed 
Dutch- Yankee,  Kortright,  v/ill  find  the  gal  and  marry  her 
before  you  find  even  which  way  she  has  gone. 

"Please  write  me  all  that  you  think  would  make  me  feel 
good  about  your  experience  with  Oilman's  clients.  He  's 
so  sick  of  his  relief  expedition  now  that  he  has  taken  to  his 
bed.  I  don't  allow  that  he  shall  forget  it  Avhile  I  live  either. 
'I  suppose  the  suits  here  might  as  well  be  closed  out 
now.  You  might  get  a  power-of-attorney  out  of  Eighmie, 
allowing  me  to  enter  judgment.  If  you  have  him  by  the 
wrist,  as  I  suppose,  he  will  no  doubt  be  in  a  'disposing 
mind,'  as  the  law  phrases  it,  and  let  you  have  about  any- 
thing you  choose  to  ask  for.         Yours  faithfully, 

"M.  Baktlemy. 

"  P.  S. — I  will  send  in  my  bill  against  the  estate  as  soon 
as  I  have  everything  completed.  I  suppose  this  matter  will 
set  you^  against  slavery  worse  than  ever,  and  I  admit  that 
it  is  a  pretty  hard  thing.  After  all,  it  is  not  fair  to  judge 
an  institwtion  by  its  worst  features  or  its  accidental  results. 


BITS  OF  GOSSIP.  G03 

One  miglit  just  as  well  denounce  the  town-meeting  because 
there  are  paupers  in  New  England,  as  declaim  against  slavery 
because  such  cases  as  Alida's  are  possible.  Such  fool  busi- 
ness as  running  all  over  the  North  hunting  niggers,  whether 
it  is  lawful  or  not,  will  soon  end  the  whole  matter.  The 
fact  is  that  slavery  only  exists  now  by  the  tolerance  of  the 
North.  They  have  the  power  and  a  constantly-increasing 
numerical  predominance.  Our  fire-eaters  laugh  at  this,  but 
when  the  tug  comes,  it  is  the  most  men  and  the  most  money 
that  wins.  I  think  that  in  less  than  twenty  years  this  ques- 
tion will  be  decided.  If  it  ever  comes  to  an  open  rupture 
with  the  North,  likely  niggers  will  not  be  worth  fifty  cents 
a  head  when  the  controversy  is  over.  The  whole  political 
atmosphere  seems  to  me  feverish  and  excited.  If  the  Seces- 
sionists and  Abolitionists  could  all  be  hanged,  we  might 
have  peace  long  enough  for  those  that  are  left  to  die  of  old 
age.  That  would  be  hard  for  you  and  your  friends,  but  I 
don't  see  any  other  way.  By  the  way,  what  do  you  think 
of  that  fellow  Jason  ?  Do  they  ever  raise  such  servants  any- 
where except  in  a  state  of  slavery  ?  That  man  only  cost 
Hargrove  about  six  hundred  dollars,  and  he  's  worth  his 
weight  in  gold.  Tell  Miss  Hilda  never  to  let  him  go  out 
of  her  service  under  any  circumstances.         Yours, 

"M.  B." 

Gilbert  Anderson,  before  he  attempted  the  rescue  of 
Hilda,  was  an  unknown  country  minister.  Ten  years  of 
honest  work  among  the  New  England  hills,  though  not 
without  results  of  which  we  need  not  be  ashamed,  had 
certainly  been  barren  of  fame.  Within  a  week  there- 
after the  East  and  the  West  were  engaged  in  clamorous 
rivalry  for  his  possession.  His  unquestioning  manhood 
had  struck  a  chord  in  the  hearts  of  the  people  that  was 
to  make  him  welcome  throughout  the  land.  Without 
knowing  it  he  had  become  a  hero.  Telegrams  and  let- 
ters poi;i-ed  in  upon  him  at  a  rate  he  had  never  dreamed 
of.     It  was  evident  that  this  modest  yet  self-reliant  ex- 


004  HO  T  PLO  WSHARE8. 

pounder  of  the  Divine  Word  would  ere  long  leave  the 
little  hamlet  in  the  Kew  England  hills  to  take  part  in  the 
endless  Armageddon  within  the  walls  of  some  great  city. 

Jared  Clarkson  was  charmed  with  the  manly  earnest- 
ness and  simplicity  of  this  country  clergyman.  The 
more  he  saw  of  him  the  deeper  grew  this  favorable  im- 
pression, and,  with  characteristic  heartiness,  he  neglected 
no  opportunity  to  speak  of  him  in  his  letters  in  terms 
that  were  certain  to  enhance  the  regard  of  those  who 
read.  During  his  entire  stay  in  Burlingdale  the  good 
pastor's  library  was  his  favorite  resort.  Upon  the  last 
of  his  accustomed  visits  Mr.  Torreiis  accompanied  him, 
and  while  Clarkson  disputed  with  the  pastor  about  theo- 
logy in  the  library,  the  young  lawyer  conversed  with 
Amy  Hargrove  in  the  parlor. 

Of  what  they  spoke  none  ever  knew,  but  when,  two 
days  afterward,  Mr.  Torrens  started  on  his  return,  Amy 
Hargrove  went  with  him.  From  that  day  none  who 
had  known  her  ever  heard  her  name  again.  A  few 
months  afterward  Gilbert  Anderson  received  a  draft 
almost  equal  to  a  year's  salary.  It  was  mailed  in  New 
York,  but  there  was  no  clue  to  the  source  from  which  it 
came.  He  was  greatly  troubled  about  accepting  so  large 
a  sum  from  an  unknown  donor.  His  wife  insisted  that 
it  was  meant  as  payment  for  what  they  had  done  for  their 
strange,  involuntary  guest,  and,  considering  the  facts,  not 
at  all  excessive.  As  it  came  at  a  time  when  such  a  wind- 
fall was  peculiarly  acceptable  in  making  preparation  for 
the  new  field  of  labor  in  the  far  western  city,  his  objec- 
tion was  at  length  overruled  and  the  draft  was  cashed. 
After  all,  the  good  woman's  speculations  were  more 
fanciful  than  real. 

The  affair  at  Beechwood  is  one  of  those  mysteries  that 
are  never  cleared  up  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  public. 
There  were  many  guesses  at  the  truth,  but  none  ever 


BITS  OF  GOSSIP.  G05 

knew  whether  they  were  right  or  wrong.  The  data  on 
which  tliey  were  based  consisted  chiefly  of  tliese  facts  : 
Sherwood  Eighmie  and  his  confederates  were  allowed  to 
depart  on  merely  nominal  bail.  This  bail  was  forfeited, 
and  the  suits,  public  and  private,  were  allowed  to  die  of 
sheer  indifference  on  the  part  of  the  prosecution.  When 
Eighmie  returned  to  his  home  the  litigation  between 
"Eighmie  et  al.  and  Hargrove's  executors"  was  dis- 
missed on  the  plaintiffs'  motion  and  at  their  cost.  From 
these  facts  the  people  in  and  about  Burlingdale  concluded 
tbat  public  justice  had  been  bargained  for  private  right. 
They  could  only  have  been  half  right  at  best,  but  those 
who  held  these  views  were  stimulated  thereby  to  a  more 
active  antagonism  to  slavery.  These  facts  occasioned 
much  comment  also  in  the  region  where  Sherwood  Eigh- 
mie lived,  but  he  kept  his  own  counsel.  There  it  was 
generously  believed  that  public  sentiment  in  Blankshire 
had  balked  the  law,  and  that,  in  order  to  save  himself 
and  his  fellows  from  troublesome  and  endless  prosecu- 
tion in  a  hostile  community,  he  had  agreed  to  surrender 
his  rights,  and  had  chivalrously  kept  his  word.  In  the 
minds  of  all  who  accepted  this  view,  it  tended  not  a  little 
to  fasten  the  conviction  that  the  South  could  not  look  for 
any  justice  at  the  hands  of  the  North,  but  only  envy, 
chicanery  and  hate.  Kot  long  afterward  Eighmie  entered 
into  possession  of  Mallowbanks,  by  what  right  no  one 
knew ;  but,  as  nobody  appeared  to  dispute  his  possession, 
he  continued  to  hold  it.  Years  afterward  there  was  found 
upon  the  Register's  books  of  Clayburn  county  the  record 
of  two  quit-claim  deeds  of  the  plantation  known  as  Mal- 
lowbanks, situate  in  said  county,  properly  described  by 
metes  and  bounds,  one  executed  to  Hilda  Hargrove  by 
Heloise  Eighmie,  and  the  other  to  Sherwood  Eighmie 
by  Hilda  Hargrove.  As  these  constituted  color  of  title 
in  him,  his  possession  became,  in  the  course  of  years, 
an  indefeasible  right. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

THE  HARVESTING. 

Another  year  had  passed.  Tlie  Man  and  the  Houi 
had  come.  The  cuhnination  of  half  a  century's  thought 
was  at  hand.  It  was  a  bright  day  in  October.  Where  a 
majestic  current  bursts  its  way  through  solid  granite 
Avails,  nestling  in  the  shadow  of  overhanging  mountains, 
was  a  little  hamlet  turbulent  with  wild  excitement.  The 
pomp  of  war  was  strangely  interspersed  with  the  garb  of 
peace.  Turmoil  and  frenzy,  bravado  and  fear,  were  cu- 
riously mingled.  A  piebald  soldiery  mimicked  with  quaint 
oddity  the  duties  which  the  veteran  performs  uncon- 
sciously. A  little  squad  of  men  in  blue  uniforms,  under  di- 
rection of  a  grave-faced  man  of  middle  age,  constituted 
the  centre  of  attraction.  A  cordon  of  sentinels  was  drawn 
around  an  open  space  near  the  river-bank.  A  long  low 
building,  with  a  double  doorway  that  occupied  almost  the 
whole  front,  stood  at  the  end  of  this  space.  Outside  this 
line  of  sentinels  pressed  the  populace,  citizen  soldiers  and 
rustics,  old  and  3'oung,  crowding  upon  each  other  to  see 
Avhat  was  within. 

It  was  not  much,  j-et  none  who  saw  it — aye,  none  Avho 
read  of  it  in  the  journals  of  that  day — will  ever  forget  it. 
Within  that  narrow  space  an  old  man  lay  upon  the  ground. 
A  blood-stained  blanket  underneath  his  helpless  limbs.  A 
son  upon  his  right  hand  dying.  Upon  his  left  another,  dead. 
The  sun  beat  upon  his  bare  head.  Eager  crowds  ques- 
tioned and  jeered.  The  blood  oozed  through  the  matted 
liair  and  ran  slowly  down  his  neck.  A  wound  upon  his 
forehead  was  half  hidden  by  a  handkerchief,  grimy  and 


THE  HARYESTIXG.  607 

discolored.  Sweat  and  dust  and  blood  were  upon  his  face 
and  hands.     The  surgeons  said  he  could  not  live. 

This  old  man,  with  less  than  a  score  of  followers,  had 
startled  the  world  from  slumber.  In  every  Southern  state 
the  call  to  arms  was  heard.  Patrols  were  doubled.  Slaves 
were  watched.  Terror  came  to  every  home  in  a  dozen 
states.  The  sunshine  hid  unnumbered  perils.  The  womb 
of  night  was  big  with  horrors.  Thousands  were  in  hourly 
fear.  Millions  slept  in  terror  many  a  night  thereafter. 
He  had  fallen.  His  insane  attempt  had  failed.  The 
magazine  on  which  the  South  had  builded  was  yet  un- 
fired.  The  insurrection  of  a  day  was  at  an  end.  The 
flags  of  two  states  waved  triumphantly  over  him.  The 
Stars  and  Stripes  proudly  attested  the  supremacy  of  the 
Constitution  and  the  laws.  A  few  dead  bodies  were  in 
sight.  Here  and  there  others  lay  upon  the  public  way — 
within  the  shattered  building,  on  the  rocks  in  the  turgid 
river — some  black,  some  white.  Even  death  could  not 
protect  them.  Insult  pursued  their  poor  still  clay.  Men 
shot  the  dead.     Pools  of  blood  were  about  the  streets. 

Even  in  his  weakened,  broken  plight  the  old  man  was 
leonine  in  look  and  gesture,  A  word  of  comfort  to  the 
dying  son,  of  pity  for  the  one  already  dead,  but  of  his 
OAvn  sad  hurt  no  word.  No  murmur  of  complaint,  no  moan 
of  pain.  To  those  who  stood  over  him  plying  his  ebbing 
strength  with  fierce  inquisition,  his  replies  were  clear  and 
calm.  To  those  who  uttered  curses,  he  found  breath  to 
administer  reproof  Even  cowards  were  compelled  to  ad- 
mire his  courage,  and  those  who  hated  most  to  admit  his 
sincerity.  "  The  bravest  man  I  ever  saw, "  said  one  whose 
own  courage  many  a  bloody  field  afterwards  attested. 
"No  man  ever  lived  before  who  was  at  all  like  him,"  said 
another,  who  bent  over  him  that  day  and  sought  to  drag 
from  his  lips  the  story  of  some  great  conspiracy — some 
Catilinian  revolt  against  "  the  best  government  the  sun 
ever  shone  upon."    In  vain.     At  the  top  and  bottom, 


608  HOT  PL  0 WSRARES. 

the  beginning  and  the  end,  there  was  but  one  man — one 
thought,  one  name — John  Brown.  Not  boastful  nor  am- 
bitious ;  not  seeking  power  or  wealth ;  not  looking  to 
overthrow  a  nation  or  found  a  dynasty — the  one  man 
"unlike  all  other  men"  had  drawn  unto  himself  a  few 
whose  hearts  were  fused  with  the  fervor  of  his  own  high 
purpose,  and  had  undertaken  a  movement  perilous  and 
rash  beyond  any  in  history. 

The  Martyr  had  appeared.  Self-immolated  he  lay 
upon  the  soil  of  Virginia.  The  world  knows  the  story. 
That  "strange  Mr.  Brown,"  as  Hilda  had  called  him. 
"Old  Brown,  of  Ossawatamie,"  as  his  enemies  named 
him.  "Old  man  Brown,"  as  the  most  friendly  of  the 
metropolitan  journals  of  that  day  termed  him.  "Cap- 
tain John  Brown,"  as  he  modestly  avowed  himself  upon 
his  capture — the  incarnation  of  a  thought  that  already 
colored  with  its  fervid  glow  the  life  of  one-half  of  a  great 
people — John  Brown  had  offered  himself  and  the  poor 
lives  that  clung  to  his  a  sacrifice  for  liberty  and  a  protest 
against  slavery.  "  Guilty,"  said  they  who  saw  only  the 
blood  that  flowed.  "Mad,"  said  they  who  pitied.  "A 
fool,"  cried  those  who  measured  his  act  by  their  own 
weak  spirit.  "  Unlike  all  other  men,"  said  the  statesman 
who  saw  and  wondered.  "  John  Brown,"  is  all  the  world 
has  yet  found  to  say  of  him.  Uncomprehended,  because 
the  world  has  so  few  standai'ds  by  which  he  might  be 
measured.  Eevered  as  a  martyr  through  one-half  the 
land.  Execrated  as  a  monster  by  the  other.  Looked 
upon  with  reverence  in  many  thousand  Xorthern  homes. 
A  name  of  terror  at  every  Southern  fireside.  To  the 
North  the  forerunner  of  justice  and  liberty.  To  the 
South  the  incarnation  of  bloodshed,  rapine,  woe !  To 
the  one  his  act  meant  aggression.  To  the  other  his  execu- 
tion meant  defiance.  When  he  died,  throughout  the 
North  the  church-bells  tolled  and  praj^er  was  uttered  for 
the  passing  soul.     In  the  South  thanksgiving  was  offered 


THE  HARVESTINO.  609 

for  deliverance  from  evil.  John  Brown !  Monster  and 
Martyr ;  Conspirator  and  Saint ;  Murderer  and  Libera- 
tor ;  Cause  and  Consequence  !  Animating  one-lialf  the 
land  to  emulate  his  example ;  stimulating  the  other  to 
meet  aggression ;  inciting  both  to  the  shedding  of  blood  ! 

Brave,  humble,  single-hearted,  simple  living.  Seeking 
not  his  own  gain.  Cruel  in  the  scathing  intensity  of 
his  hate  for  wrong.  Grand  in  the  impossibility  of  his 
attempt.  Sublime  in  his  faith  that  through  his  death 
the  purpose  of  his  life  would  be  performed.  The  climax 
of  one  age  and  the  harbinger  of  another  ! 

Upon  the  bridge  that  spans  the  river  stands  a  restless 
crowd  gazing  at  a  half-naked  body  that  lies  upon  a  rock 
midway  of  the  rushing  stream.  It  is  long  since  dead,  but 
many  a  shot  is  fired  at  the  bare  breast  and  cold,  set  face 
that  overhangs  the  eddy  that  boils  beneath. 

"  D'ye  see  that  mark  upon  his  face  ?"  said  one. 

"For  all  the  world  like  'Lathiel  Jenkins,"  answered 
his  fellow,  curiously. 

"  Don't  you  know  him  ?" 

"No." 

"Why,  it's  that  boy  .'Lathiel  used  to  own— the  one 
that  run  away." 

"  You  don't  say  ?" 

"Yes;  I  knew  he'd  go  to  the  bad.  He  was  always 
saying  he  'd  '  rather  die  than  he  a  slave.''  " 

"  Well,  he  's  had  his  choice,"  said  the  other  carelessly. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply.  "It 's  a  pity,  too.  He  was  a 
right  likely  boy  if  he  hadn't  been  so  high-strung. " 

Skendoah  has  a  holiday  once  more.  The  wheels  are 
still ;  the  looms  silent ;  the  factories  closed.  The  houses 
are  decked  with  flags.  Martial  music  echoes  through 
the  streets.  A  thousand  bayonets  catch  the  sunbeams. 
The  tread  of  serried  ranks  is  almost  drowned  by  the 
clatter  of  attendant  feet  upon  the  sidewalks.     There  are 


610  HO  T  PLO  WSRARES. 

moist  eyes  and  quivering  lips.  Mothers  and  wives  and 
sisters  are  sacrificing  to  the  sentiment  of  freedom.  Sken- 
doah  has  given  of  its  best  and  bravest.  A  thousand 
households  have  yielded  up  a  chosen  life — a  first-born  or 
a  best-beloved.  In  the  front  rides  one  with  grave,  flushed 
face,  still  young.  The  end  of  preparation  and  of  waiting 
has  come  at  length.  He  is  not  one  man  but  a  thousand. 
Behind  him  are  the  ripening  years.  The  labors  of  a 
generation  have  brought  forth  fruit.  The  lost  lake  yields 
up  iti^ treasures.  The  busy  years  have  transmuted  into 
gold  the  waters  of  Memnona.  Skendoah  sends  its  heroes 
forth,  equipped  for  the  soldier's  work,  and  Martin  Kort- 
right  leads  them. 

The  train  is  filled  ;  the  engine  puffs  and  shrieks ;  the 
crowd  cheers  lustily  ;  the  tears  are  hidden  and  the  sighs 
are  drowned.  In  an  open  barouche  stands  a  fair  young 
wife  whose  eyes  are  bright  and  dry,  waving  a  farewell.  So 
long  as  the  train  is  in  sight  the  spotless  signal  of  her 
love  waves  good  cheer  to  the  departed.  When  the  last 
glimpse  of  it  is  lost  she  bows  her  head  upon  the  shoulder 
of  the  gray,  decrepit  man  who  sits  beside  her,  and 
utters  to  the  coachman  the  one  word,  "Home!"  Ah! 
how  sobbingly  weak  and  vain  it  sounds  !  Sturmhold  once 
more  has  lost  its  master.  As  they  drive  through  the 
thronged  streets — past  the  silent  factories,  across  the 
bridge  above  the  empty  channel,  and  see  the  soft  spring 
sunlight  kissing  the  blue  waters  of  Memnona,  Harrison 
Kortright  waves  his  hand  toward  the  quiet  lake,  the 
clustered  homes,  the  silent  caverns  where  the  gnomes  of 
labor  sleep,  and  says : 

"This  day  cometh  the  Harvest !" 

The  nation  faces  the  ordeal  the  Past  has  prepared. 
Hot  Plowshares  lie  along  her  path  and  she  is  led 
blindfold  and  barefoot  to  the  trial.  The  ages  wait  to  sit 
in  judgment ! 

[the  end.] 


BULLET  AND  SHELL 

aaiar  as  t\)t  Soltricr  saiu  it : 

CAITT,    MARCH    AND    PICKET  ;      BATTLE  -  FIELD    AND    BIV(1UAC ; 
PRISON    AND    HOSPITAL. 

By  GEORGE  F.  WILLIAMS. 

OF  THE  5th  and  146TH  REGIMENTS  NEW  YORK  VOLUNTEERS,  AND  WAR  CORRESPONDENT 

WITH  THE  ARMY  OF  THE   POTOMAC,   THE   ARMY   OF    THE    SHENANDOAH, 

AND  THE  ARMY  OF  THE  CUMBERLAND, 

3Uusti-att& 

WITH  ENGRAVINGS  FROM  SKETCHES  AMONG  THE  ACTUAL  SCENES 

By  EDWIN  FORBES, 


"  Histories  of  the  war  by  generals  and  civilians  are  numberless,  but  the  story 
of  the  struggle  from  the  stand-point  of  the  private  soldier  is  only  just  beginning 
to  find  its  way  into  print.  .  .  .  It  Is  a  pleasure  to  be  able  to  heartily  endorse 
'Bullet  and  Shell.'  "—Chicago  Tribune. 

"  Many  of  the  Incidents  belong  to  the  hitherto  unwritten  history  of  the  re- 
bellion."—iVeiv  York  Times. 

"From  the  opening  to  Its  closing  chapter  is  as  interesting  as  the  best  written 
novel."— C/iicago  Inter-Ocean. 

"  All  the  many  phases  of  war  are  vividly  portrayed,  and  that,  too,  without 
any  sacrifice  of  the  truth  of  history."— iVeio  York  Tribune. 

"  The  story  of  an  important  part  of  our  great  and  awful  civil  war  has  never 
been  told  so  graphically."— P/ii/a.  Evening  BuUetin. 

"Many  passages  illustrating  the  writer's  descriptive  power  might  be  quoted, 
and  frequent  close  personal  glimpses  it  gives  of  men  whose  renown  has  passed 
into  history."— C/itcafiro  Times. 

"  One  can  safely  predict  that  it  will  be  the  most  widely  circulated  work  on  the 
Civil  War  that  has  been  published.  .  .  .  Presents  in  brilliant  lights  and  deep 
shadows  a  photograph  of  actual  army  life."— Boston  Globe 

"  Much  of  the  narrative  is  in  the  form  of  dialogue,  and  enlivened  lifj'  the  anec- 
dotes and  incidents  which  make  up  so  large  a  part  of  army  life  and  so  small  a 
part  of  ordinary  army  histories.  Though  a  large  volume,  it  has  more  pith  than 
padding,  and  to  old  soldiers  especially  it  will  prove  most  entertaining."— i)e(roit 

"  From  personal  experience  of  many  scenes  described,  we  can  truthfully 
vouch  for  the  accuracy  of  his  vivid  pictures,  and  the  truth  of  his  most  admira- 
ble delineations.  .  .  .  We  know  of  no  more  stirring  and  soul-inspiring  book. 
It  is  a  story  to  delight  the  old  soldier's  heart."— iV.  T.  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"One  gets  in  it  a  complete  realization  of  the  dangers,  the  toils,  and  the  priva- 
tions of  war,  and  of  the  excitements  of  the  combats  in  their  various  stages."— 
Boston  Gazette. 

"  He  has  happily  caught  the  free-and-easy  dash  and  swing  of  life  in  the  ranks, 
and  rattles  on  so  easily  and  with  such  realistic  touches  that  the  reader  is  almost 
persuaded  he  is  recalling  actual  experiences— which,  no  doubt,  he  is  in  many 
cases."— Philadelphia  Enquirer. 

•'  The  incidents  read  as  though  they  had  been  written  on  a  drum-head,  on  the 
field  of  battle."— r/ie  CHtic,  New  York. 

"A  book  of  really  absorbing  interest.  .  .  .  A  great  addition  to  the  litera- 
ture of  the  war.  No  Southerner  can  find  fault  with  the  spirit  of  the  book,  which 
is  fraternal  and  kind."— Philadelphia  Press. 

"  Illustrated  with  a  multitude  of  spirited  engravings  from  sketches  by  Edwin 
Forbes,  whose  brilliant  series  of  etchings— 'Life  Studies  of  the  Great  Army '— 
g.iined  him  the  applause  of  both  soldiers  and  artists,  and  a  membership  in  the 
French  Etching  Club."— Boston  Literary  Woiid. 


One  Volume,  Large  Octavo.  Profusely  Illustrated. 

Scarlet  Shot  Cloth »«  75 

roacock-Bliie  Silk-Pattern  Cloth,  gilt  edges 3  '-S5 

i^W  Sold  by  Subscription ;  or  mailed,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of  iirice,  to  towns 
where  tee  have  no  agent.  _g31 

Fords,  Howard,  &  Hulbert, 

Publishers,  27  Park  Place.  New  fork. 


A    CONCISE    HISTORY 

OF    THE 

American  People. 

By  JACOB  HARRIS  PATTON,  A.M. 
Author  of    "  The  Natural  Resources  of  the  United  States,"  etc. 


Twenty  five  years  ago,  Prof.  Patton,  then  a  teacher  of  histor}-,  began 
collecting  materials  and  casting  into  shape  this  important  work,  very  much 
on  the  plan  later  adopted  in  "  Green's  History  of  the  English  People."  The 
complete  work,  in  two  volumes,  is  a  History  of  the  United  States  from  the 
discovery  of  the  continent  to  1882  ;  a  History  0/  American  Politics,  divided 
into  successive  Presidential  terms  ;  and  a  historic  presentation  of  the  Life  of 
the  Ainerican  People,  comprising  the  beginning  and  growtli  of  industries, 
the  formative  force  of  religious  ideas,  the  results  of  widely  different  systems 
of  education  during  six  generations  and  their  influence  upon  public  opinion, 
the  causes  and  the  course  of  the, several  wars,  including  much  that  is  new 
and  valuable,  in  a  full,  succinct,  and  impartial  record  of  the  Civil  War. 

A  distinct  portion  of  the  work  is  devoted  to  ''  Hoiv  We  are  Governed.''^ 
Prof.  Patton  concludes  that  every  citizen,  and  especially  every  ^•oter,  should 
have  a  practical  knowledge  of  this  subject. 

It  is  the  aim  of  Patton's  American  People  to  embody  all  the  elements 
of  true  history — the  essential  facts,  the  underlying  causes  and  principles,  the 
drift  of  events,  the  force  of  ideas,  and  the  parts  men  play — and  to  set  before 
the  reader  a  moving  drama  of  real,  vivid  forms.  History,  thus  presented, 
becomes  the  most  fascinating  and  instructive  department  of  literature. 

"  Prof.  Patton  approaches  much  nearer  to  the  Ideal  Historian  than  any 
writer  of  similar  books.  His  work  must  be  given  the  highest  place  among  short 
Histores  of  the  United  States." — Ckristia?t  i'itio?i  (New  York.) 

"We  take  great  pleasure  in  commending  it  for  general  reading  and  reference, 
for  use  in  c  1  eges  and  schools,  and  for  all  the  purposes  of  a  complete  and  accurate 
history." — N.  V.  Observer. 

The  Portrait  Illustrations,  ivith  Autographs  and  Biographical  Diction- 
ary of  Eminent  Men,  serve  to  represent  the  leading  departments  of  progress 
— Law,  Literature,  Theology,  Science,  Music,  Invention — the  Soldier  and 
Statesman,  the  Discoverer,  Explorer,  Frontiersman,  etc. 

Complete  in  2  vols. ,  8vo,  1160  pages,  postpaid  to  any  address  for  $3  per  vol. 


Intelligent  Ladies  and  Gentlemen   ivanlcd,  to  slunv   samples  and  take 
orders.     Address 

Fords,  Howard,  &  Hulbert, 

'i7  I'arli  riacv.  New  York. 


